


One Gets Over Things

by HerWingsofGlass



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: 50’s Lesbian Angst, A Helluva Lot of Martinis, Continuation, F/F, Lesbian, Lesbian Smirks Abound, Love, Post Oak Room Fic, Therese POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-06-12 01:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15328278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerWingsofGlass/pseuds/HerWingsofGlass
Summary: Therese was left once again baffled by circumstance. She couldn’t believe she was here, again. That she was looking at Carol, that Carol was looking at her. Everything was the same, only vastly, wildly different.//Following the close of the book/film, Therese and Carol work to patch things back together between them—but trust isn’t the easiest thing to grow.This fic leans on both the book and the film, blending some of elements of each.





	1. The Elysée

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this new fic, unofficially but affectionately nicknamed Salty, Salty Gays of the 50s.  
> Please enjoy, and let me know your thoughts!

Therese’s breath caught as she approached Carol’s table. She watched as Carol’s eyes flit back and forth between her dinner guests—one, two, three, and then—They landed on her, and the wind rushed out of her lungs. She felt a thousand thoughts flood through her head, a thousand admissions and promises and hopes—a thousand and more fears and doubts.  
  
Just as she felt the tendrils of each and every reason why she should not, in fact, be in this restaurant--reasons why she should not, in fact, willingly submit herself to the gaze of this mesmerizing woman, creep up her spine, she caught herself. She had made her decision. She was resolved.  
  
Carol’s face blossomed with a warm smile. “Harold, Anne, Jim—may I introduce you to Therese Belivet? Therese is a dear, dear friend of mine. Won’t you join us, Therese?” Her introductions were practiced, delivered in that perfectly even tone that communicated both social savoir and a hint of managerial distance. That is, up until her offer for Therese to join their party. Lining the well-honed social-ese was an edge of uncertainty. Like she couldn’t quite believe that Therese had really come to this restaurant of all places to see her of all people. Or perhaps it was a test. To ensure that Therese was deciding to return to her. That it wasn’t simply a polite ‘hello.’  
  
Regardless, the offer made Therese’s stomach churn. Yet another checkpoint at which she could turn back. _Should turn back_ , corrected a little voice in the back of her head. Therese grit her teeth and offered up a small smile instead. “I would love to, if it isn’t an imposition.”  
  
Three voices immediately chorused assurances. Of course not; it would be a delight to have her; any friend of Carol’s is a friend to them. Carol’s eyebrow quirked wickedly at the last comment.  
  
After a round of introductions and names, polite chatter resumed at its former comfortable pace. Therese was seated directly across from Carol, and she found her eyes tracing the edges of the other woman’s lips as they smiled slightly, the angle of her hand as it reached up to support her chin, the faintest crinkle in her eyes as she listened to the comments of Anne or Harold or whoever. The first few minutes passed much like that. Therese half-heartedly attempted to follow the conversation, the other dinner guests raucously engaged one another, drawing upon old stories and shared connections, and Carol. Carol watched, and smiled, and utterly ignored Therese.  
  
Inwardly, she sighed. Of course, what had she expected. A romantic embrace? Some kind of energetic surge or bond, such that not even an air raid could wrench them away from each other? Carol was not one for romantic gestures. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Therese looked down at the napkin and utensils left untouched at the previously empty seat. She traced the outline of the fork as it lay on the napkin lightly with her forefinger. When she completed the circuit, she smiled lightly and looked up.  
  
Right into the eyes of Carol. Carol, it seemed, had been watching her for a few moments, and Therese looked up in time to catch the worried crease on her brow disappear and the warm, quizzical smile on her lips grow in its stead. And just like that, a fluttering heat crept up her sternum, her throat, and painted her cheeks. Only a few months ago, such a gaze would have sent Therese’s eyes right back down. Such a look, with all its ferocity and daring and potential judgment, would have been too much to bare. But with these months between them, with everything she had worked through bolstering her, Therese held Carol’s gaze. Flushed and flustered, she stared right back into Carol’s water-gray eyes and watched what appeared therein—was that surprise? Pride? Perhaps even a little anxiety?  
  
Therese was left once again baffled by circumstance. She couldn’t believe she was here, again. That she was looking at Carol, that Carol was looking at her. Everything was the same, only vastly, wildly different.  
  
The woman to Therese’s right—she had already forgotten her name, but, of course, it didn’t really matter—asked Carol a question, pulling her attention away from Therese. Therese could feel some coil in her sternum unwind slightly at the release. She did not listen to their conversation, favoring instead to peer at the shape of Carol’s hair. The glint as it caught the light.  
**…**

  
  
  


The dinner ended not soon after. Ms. So-and-So begged off, needing to check on her son. Mr. Also opted to walk her to her car. Mr. Other smiled politely—and, was that a knowing smirk?—and echoed their departure. He dipped his hat and disappeared into the stream of passersby.  
  
Just like that, Carol and Therese were left alone, standing outside the Elysée dinning room entrance. Therese glanced down at her shoe twisting the balls of her right foot over a raised spot on the floor. What now? Surely, they didn’t, couldn’t, just… carry on? She wrinkled her nose. Carol fidgeted beside her, and the prickling of the back of her neck told Therese that Carol was watching her. Carol shifted her purse more comfortably into the crook of her arm, pulled her bone-gray coat tighter across her chest. Each movement sent another wave of her perfume wafting toward Therese.  
  
“Well,” Carol finally began. Therese’s eyes shot up to meet her. She straightened up slowly. Carol was fiddling with her gloves, twisting them this way and that in her hands, slapping them against her wrist. Therese followed the motion for a moment, resisting the impulse to smile.  
  
Carol cleared her throat. “Are you—” She looked down at her gloves and breathed. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or something? My—my place isn’t far. Just up the way. We could… talk, or…” She lifted her eyes to meet Therese’s, smiling and shrugging lightly. Hopefully. _Tentatively._  
  
Therese was fascinated, enrapt. She seemed so unsure of herself, so hesitant. A mere month ago the woman seemed a monolith—an unshakable force that could do anything, _would_ do anything, to get what she wanted. Now she was… nervous. Penitent. Human. Human but still very, very breathtaking.  
  
_And you look very fine. Is that what comes of getting away from me?_ Therese recalled her asking. _No_ , Therese had forcefully responded. But, of course, yes. Yes and no. So much with Carol was a yes and no.  
  
The seconds of silence stretched out between them, wilting Carol’s smile. “Or… we could… I can call you a ca—“  
  
“Sure.” Therese replied finally. “Tea sounds nice.”  
  
Carol blinked. The words settled around her but took a moment to sink in. Then, she smiled.  
  
Oh, that smile. Therese felt her heartrate tap double-time at that smile.  
  
“Well. Let’s get on, then.” And with that, Carol turned and began to walk off down the moon-dappled street.


	2. An Apartment, Big Enough for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Therese return to Carol's new apartment for a cup of tea and a necessary conversation.

“Here we are,” Carol said, stepping aside as she swung open the door to her apartment. She held her keys lightly in her hand, stilled their metal to quiet them. She watched as Therese stepped into the space, her head swiveling slowly left to right.

The door had opened to a generous living room—A couch, two chairs, a coffee table. All of them were a calm cream color, matching the walls. It was very neutral, very classy. A bookcase stood against the far wall. Therese could see a collection of leather-bound books, trinkets, and, standing out in the center, the record Therese had gifted Carol last Christmas. Therese felt awash in the cream-colored interior, swept up in the softness of the color—as if, any minute now, the walls would melt apart, liquidous, and carry her from the room in a deluge, in a wave. Carol’s apartment was lavish, of course, but it was also refreshing—clean and new, undisturbed almost. She remembered the first time she’d entered Carol’s previous house—so many months ago, such a different life ago. That house had been Carol’s, but also not hers. It was riddled with the signs of a family life that had been haphazardly scraped away, leaving shadows of another life lived there. This new space was Carol and only Carol. Everything was perfectly set in place, of course. The furniture was all scuff-free, free of cracks or paint marks—all unlike Therese’s own space, which was as worn as it was sparse. 

Therese moved further into the apartment slowly. Her eyes traced the doorframe that interrupted the far wall. That must be the bedroom. Her throat suddenly felt too small. But then she could hear Carol behind her, closing the door. Carol stepped around her, removing her coat and hanging it on a coatrack by the door before offering to take Therese’s own. She seemed relieved to have something to do with herself, something to focus upon. Therese followed her lead and turned back to inspect her surroundings some more. The spacious living room opened to the right onto a dining room and a kitchen. Therese could see a corner hutch full of silverware and crystal glasses in the dining room. 

“Tea?” Carol broke into Therese’s concentration, pulling the younger woman’s eyes to her. Carol smiled a small smile. Uncertain again, Therese noticed. How curious. 

“Yes, please,” she responded, offering a smile of her own in return. 

It seemed to do the trick. Carol’s shoulders relaxed a fraction; her chin lifted; her hands came together, lightly intertwined. She quirked the corners of her lips, “Alright, then.” She started for the kitchen, tossing her purse onto an armchair along the way. So casual, so sure. Therese mused on the act, on the tonal change. She did that so often and so rarely—these little moments of whimsy, of relaxation threaded between her rigid intensities. Therese always felt blown back by the changing winds, the wild and shifting temperament of Carol Aird. Tentative, reserved, careful one moment. Confident, flirtatious, and casual the next. When she was three or four feet away from Therese, Carol looked back over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “If you follow me, I can show you the exciting new space that is my kitchen.”

Therese felt a laugh bubble up in her throat, and she joined Carol in heading into kitchen. 

Carol made short work of preparing the tea. Evenso, they did not speak much throughout the process. Therese wondered whether this would be the course of the evening. It was a small wonder that they had not been trapped in small talk, but not talking wasn’t much of an improvement. 

Her fears were slightly allayed as Carol led them back out into the living room, tea in hand. She directed Therese to the couch, sat beside her, and arranged the teacups in front of them. Once everything was as settled as it could ever possibly be, she turned to face Therese. 

“So…” She let the word hang in the air, buoyed by a tone of hope and anticipation but weighted, too, by the conversation to come. 

Therese watched the word hang there, let it ring out for a few seconds. It was a test of strength, surely. Who would cave first, who would start the conversation or make amends or concessions? Who would have the power?—But then Therese was brought back to the curious uncertainty of Carol throughout the evening, the undiluted warmth of her smile when she first saw Therese in the restaurant. Therese nodded her head finally, slowly. “So,” she echoed.

“You came. Tonight. To the restaurant.” Carol began. Each word lingered at its end, dangling prompts.

“Yes.”

“You said you wouldn’t. That you didn’t want to, but you did.” Carol’s voice was thinner now. Quieter. Quicker.

“Yes,” Therese repeated. _Say something else, anything else,_ her head screamed.

“What—” Carol stopped herself. She looked down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap, unclasped them, spreading her fingers out as if asking time itself to hold for just a moment. And for a moment, she just breathed. Just stared at her spread hands. 

The moment came to a close as she laid her hands down on her knees, flat against her legs. “Therese,” She locked eyes with Therese, “You know how I feel about you—or, anyway, I _hope_ you know how I feel about you. I—I want this. Us. And I had hoped… I had hoped you would want this as well, but maybe you don’t… I—” She stopped herself. She seemed frustrated, trapped within herself. As suddenly as she stopped talking, she burst forth, “What _do_ you want?” 

Therese blinked. Carol always knew how to take her off guard. She was indirect when you wanted her to be direct, and she barreled through to the point in moments when you might expect floundering or subtlety. But, it was a good question—a necessary one. What did she want? She’d shown up at the restaurant, hadn’t she? She made the gesture, stuck through the dinner, followed the woman up the street to the new apartment she had only earlier refused. 

“I think I want to talk—I need to talk… about things first.” Therese finally heard herself respond. Her heart began to race, pounding faster in her ears. 

Carol let out a breath. “Alright. Talk. I can talk.” She leaned back into the sofa. 

Therese echoed the movement, grasping her cup of tea, and looping her thumb through the handle. She ran her forefinger over the rim and looked at the steam rising from the surface of the liquid.

“I went to that party this evening,” she began after a few seconds of silence. Carol hummed her recognition. “There was a girl there. A woman.” She corrected herself. Carol didn’t say anything, but Therese could see that she had frozen. “She was pretty,” Therese shrugged, “And she liked me. And I just remember thinking that it would be so easy, _so easy_ to make her do anything. To just toy with her, make her want me to want her.” Therese could see Carol’s eyebrows draw together in her periphery. She frowned, “It wasn’t that I even liked or knew her. She was… attractive, I guess. The men in the room wanted her. But, I just—It was that you… you do… things to me. You have this power. And I always thought that it was because you had some special—I don’t know what I thought. I thought it was you. Just you. And that I was some helpless child strung along.” Therese heard the bitterness creeping into her voice, was aware of the way Carol tensed up at the tone, had sat up slowly, but she could only continue what she had started. “But it wasn’t just you. It was me too. I wanted to be led along. I wanted to be swept up and—” Therese shook her head. She pursed her lips and frowned at the floor before looking up at Carol. “I didn’t… do anything with her. I didn’t need to.” Carol relaxed a fraction, but her brows remained drawn, her eyes focused. “But, for a moment, I felt what it was like to hold that power,” she said finally. 

Therese was quiet for another moment. After a beat, Carol shifted in her seat. “Well, I don’t know wh—”

Therese cut her off, “You left.”

Silence again. Carol looked down at her tea. Therese looked over at Carol. The clock on the wall tick-tick-ticked as the second hand crept around on its orbit. 

“I had to try to get Rindy back,” Carol said finally, quietly. She did not look up from her tea.

“But you _left_. You just disappeared. From the hotel, from my life. You wouldn’t _speak_ to me. Nothing,” Therese could feel a flush in her face growing, her heartrate speeding with newfound panic. She could feel the anger in her throat and feel the whining tone running along her words. Of course Carol had left. Of course she had wanted to try, _needed to try_ , to get her daughter back. But, couldn’t she _see_? Didn’t she _care_ about how empty and unwanted and _foolish_ it had made her feel? Therese did not say this. She couldn’t get her mouth to admit it nor her tongue to form the words. Instead, she leaned into the pain, bled the loss into the tone of the words she could get her mouth to say. Her eyes burned holes into the sides of Carol’s head. _Hear me, hear me,_ they seemed to scream. 

“I _know_.” It was barely a whisper. Therese had to backtrack from her reeling mental course to catch it. Carol’s hand had started to shake ever-so-slightly. She reached for her cup for something to hold, but the china only clattered together. She took a trembling breath. “I know.” 

Carol looked at Therese. Her eyes were pinker than normal. Her cheeks were flushed, and for the first time in a long while, she looked her age. Therese always reveled in the uncanny youthfulness of her face. Perhaps it was the glint in her eyes when she held a secret or a joke. Or maybe it was because of her smile. Regardless, Carol was a timeless and dignified woman—impeccably coiffed and beautifully smooth. This slightly crumpled Carol, this wilted Carol was yet another stranger. Did Carol hate herself? she wondered. Therese felt her heart nudge her sternum. 

“I know, too,” Therese finally said. Her voice cracked on the way out. Carol’s brows raised slightly, her lips parted as if about to ask a question, but she remained silent. Lost for words? Therese nodded, hoping— _hoping_ —that the gesture contained all the things she couldn’t say: I forgive you, I want to forgive you, it isn’t your fault, but I need you, Carol, I need you. _Please don’t leave me. Oh God, what if you leave me._ Again. 

Therese cleared her throat finally. “I can’t move in here with you,” She continued, her eyes tracing the line of the coffee table. Carol let out a breath and leaned back into the couch, nodding lightly. The air felt deflated slightly, like a cork had been removed and the fizzing, crackling tension previously filling the confined space had rushed out to escape. “Not yet, anyway. I—” She searched for the right words for a moment. _Please understand me,_ “I need to know that I can be… myself… with you, I think. I need to not just lose myself. Like I did.”

Carol ran her eyes over the lines of Therese’s face. “But, you are saying that you do want…” The words came slowly. 

Therese sighed and looked out at the living room. “Carol, I love you. I probably shouldn’t… after everything. I should probably know better. But I do, and… and I don’t want to seduce that woman at that party. I want… you.” It felt like an anticlimactic declaration, something tepid or infantile, but she could tell Carol was smiling. Therese could see her in the edge of her vision, bordering her world. She forced herself not to look at the woman. If she did, she knew she would not be able to continue. “But, I was serious, am serious. About us figuring… things out again. I need to—“ Her voice faltered as she felt Carol shifting next to her, moving a little closer, taking her teacup from her hands. Therese swallowed hard. “I need to be an independent person. A-a partner and not just…” She felt Carol’s hand cupping her chin, felt her face being gently moved to face the woman beside her. She felt Carol whisper a light “Yes” of acquiescence against her lips. And she felt Carol kiss her. Her entire body felt Carol kiss her. Her entire body felt... Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I think about _Carol_ , I forget that Therese is so young. I keep finding myself getting frustrated with her and how selfish she is--not for wanting the things she wants, necessarily. But for the ways her desires eclipse all else and their unfulfillment threatens to completely destroy her each time. Sometimes I wonder if Patricia Highsmith was quite so volatile and utterly thrown as Therese...


	3. Whoever May Be So Bold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese and Carol have had their conversation; they have made their amends. But, of course-of course, of course-that is never the end of the story.

**…**

“I’ve been thinking of getting different drapes. Something with a little more color. This apartment is so damn proper.” 

Therese smiled, humming against Carol’s skin. Her hand traced the little indent of her sternum, ran down her torso. She loved it when Carol swore. The little instances of vulgarity were simultaneously hilarious, joyous, and delicious. Carol was, of course, anything but “proper,” but she played the part so well. 

“What do you think? How do you like the color red?” Carol looked down at Therese, stroking her hair with her hand. Therese shifted to support herself on her elbow so that she could meet Carol’s eyes. 

“Sorry? Red?”

“For the drapes.”

“Oh. Hmm.” How did her skin catch the light like that?

Carol chuckled out a low rumble. “Pay attention, _darling._ ” She pinched Therese’s side. The younger woman squeaked. And cleared her throat.

“Red?” 

“Red.” 

“I like red. Though, it is a bit… um. Bold.” 

“Oh, I know.” Carol smiled widely at her. Therese had the distinct feeling of a woodland creature being approached by a crocodile. Therese swallowed hard as Carol leaned down to meet her face, her lips paused an inch away from Therese’s. “I _feel_ bold.” With that, Carol kissed her. _Kissed her._

Therese could hear a buzzing fill her ears—the same electric hum that greeted her any time Carol touched her, kissed her, held her. Therese leaned into the kiss as it deepened. It was as if her skin was on fire, was a thousand sensors reeling and screaming to be activated. Like each pore was dying of thirst. Like this kiss, _this kiss and this kiss and this kiss,_ would quench only ever a fraction of that sensation. Carol shifted beside her, and Therese’s nose filled with the mixed, musky scent of her perfume and light sweat. Fingers trailed along her neck, threaded through her hair, and clutched there—gripping a fistful, holding fast. Therese broke off the kiss with a gasp. She pulled back a few inches—just enough to see the look in Carol’s eyes. The curious, daring… _bold_ look in her eyes. That look that made Therese’s mouth water and her throat crackle dry all at once. Therese’s eyes licked every inch of Carol’s face, delved into that wondrous and frightening expression, tracked the tilt of Carol’s lips, traveled in the shadows that pooled beneath Carol’s jawline. As she lapped up the sight of each and every inch of Carol’s form, as she tensed her back to move closer once again, to continue kissing Carol— _God, kissing Carol_ —the apartment intercom buzzed from the living room beyond. 

“Hmmm,” Carol hummed. She frowned and looked over her shoulder. “That would be Abby.” Therese felt Carol’s hand release her hair, the electric tension ebb out of her arms.

Therese rolled onto her back with a huff. She ran her hands over her face, willing the flush and fluster to wane. “Abby,” she sighed in response.

Carol stroked Therese’s face lightly with the back of her forefinger. “I can cancel,” she murmured. But Therese could hear the undercurrent of the comment, the request that she understand, that Abby be an exception. Therese knew Harge had always hated Abby, had always pressured Carol to spend less time with her. Despite herself, she could understand his insecurity. Abby had a place in Carol’s heart and life that no one could replace. But where Harge tried to force Carol to avoid Abby through social, legal, and marital pressure, Therese knew better. And so, she smiled. “No,” she replied softly. “Go. Buy furniture. Enjoy your Saturday.” Her lips quirked, and she added, “Bring home the bacon.”

A small smile peered out of Carol’s face even as she shook her head in exasperation. She ran her hand down Therese’s cheek, jaw, neck, to land on her collarbone. Therese’s breath shuddered a little. Carol’s fingers were little puppeteer strings holding her lungs taut, her skin alert. “Thank you,” Carol said, and she ducked her head to graze Therese’s shoulder lightly with her lips before lifting herself off the bed.

Therese watched Carol rise from the bed for a beat. She marveled at the lines of her back, the gentle way in which they tensed for each muscle movement. Carol was lithe, but she carried herself with such strength. As she rounded the room to pick up her robe from the foot of the bed, her smiling Carol quirked an eyebrow at Therese. Oh, she must have been staring. Therese stretched fully, reaching her hands to the headboard, and extending her toes fully. She felt a section of her back crack as she arched it and released a happy sigh. When her eyes opened again, Carol was watching her. Again. But, differently. Carol’s eyes had this look, this softness in them. It wasn’t quite the same look that had struck her so at their dinner that night, when Carol had first admitted that she loved her. Then, her eyes had been pleading even as they shone. Here… it was some other tone that played in her look. Not quite sadness, not quite happiness. Carol seemed pensive, contemplative, yet pleased in some way. As it happened each and every time Carol looked at her with any modicum of intensity, Therese could feel her face growing warm. It was impossible not to feel vulnerable under the eyes of Carol Aird. Her eyes zeroed in and saw everything about you.

Carol opened her mouth, seeming about to say something, but, again, rang the intercom buzzer, cutting through whatever words sat on the tip of her tongue. She tied her robe, and left the room to buzz Abby into the apartment building.

Therese felt released from some pressure as Carol left the room. She stared at the closed door for a moment longer as if tracing the outline of the woman formerly standing by it before swinging her legs out of bed to search for something to wear. 

…  
“So, anyway, I said I’d die before doing any such thing, she told me to go right ahead and do that then, and that was that.”

“Ah, alas. One more down.” 

Therese quietly, shyly entered the room to Abby’s tumult and Carol’s knowing smirk. Abby was standing, leaning against one of the armchairs, her arms crossed, her shoes kicked off. The coffee table in front of her sported two steaming cups of coffee. Carol sat curled up in a corner of the couch, clutching her own cup. Her body was slung so easily in the seat. Unguarded. Therese felt a familiar nudge of insecurity, a wave of light jealousy, at this rare demeanor. She knew that Abby and Carol knew each other as well as two people could, that this casual manner wasn’t intentional. It was comfort. She was comfortable with Abby in a way she was not yet, quite, comfortable with Therese. Of course. Of course, of course. And yet. 

Therese neared the couch, and, true to form, Carol unwound herself slightly from the easy, curled posture. Even so, she patted the seat beside her, and Therese immediately joined her. She smiled a “hello” to Abby for good measure. 

Abby returned the greeting with an upward nod of her head and reached for her coffee cup. “Therese Belivet.”

“Abby—” Therese paused. She couldn’t recall Abby’s last name.

“Gerhard,” Abby completed for her, smirking slightly.

Therese felt a twinge of irritation. She pursed her lips, favoring to take her coffee rather than look at Abby. This, too, seemed only to entertain the woman.

Carol hummed, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air—or so Therese thought. When she caught the older woman’s eyes, however, Carol tilted her head toward Therese. As an apology? A move of sympathy? Therese wasn’t sure. She took a sip of the coffee. 

“Abby and I are going to look at some chairs today. I got a tip from a friend about some Georgian-style wares that are available for a steal. We’re going to see about that.” Carol put a hand on the back of Therese’s neck, stroking the short hairs there.

“I bet it’s all a fraud,” Abby shot out. She stuck out her chin and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. 

“We’ll see.” Carol did not take the bait. Neither did she take her eyes off Therese. Therese’s cheeks flushed on cue. 

“We’re having supper after. You should join us, Therese.” 

Carol and Therese tensed. Carol slowly turned her head to face Abby. “I don’t know that she—”  


Abby cut across her, still addressing Therese. “Oh come _on,_ Therese. It will be a gas. Carol, you, me…” She shrugged, “…martinis. I can _regale_ you with my latest exploits. It will be… just a _gay_ old time.” Carol cleared her throat beside Therese, making Abby smile all the brighter. 

Therese’s opened her mouth to reply, but she found she hadn’t the slightest clue what to say. Surely this was a set up. Surely Abby either wanted Therese to decline the invitation or else to join them and make a complete _ass_ of herself. It was an opportunity to show Therese just how much Carol was hers, how close they were and would always be. Surely. 

Then there was Carol’s reaction. She seemed as shocked, as torn at the idea of Therese interrupting their dinner, as Therese was herself. It made some kind of sense. Carol and Abby’s time together was joyous and carefree. Carol could be the way she was before Therese had entered the room—unbridled, uninhibited. Carol glanced at Therese, noticing her attention, her consideration. She wanted to ask Carol, _is this alright? Do you want this?_ Don’t _you want this? Why wouldn’t you want this?_

Abby broke into her mental refrain with a dramatic groan. “Look, Therese. I am trying here. Humor me.” It was almost a dare. That ever-present glint in Abby’s eyes—so impatient, so reckless, so playful—flickered confidently—irritably? 

“It would be nice,” Carol echoed softly. She seemed to have decided something. Her support or her acquiescence. Something. Regardless, it was the tipping point, weighing the scales past equilibrium, tilting Therese’s head just enough to form a slight nod.

Abby clapped her hands, “Excellent! I’ll call to increase the reservation. Gerald loves me. He can’t deny me anything. Carol, let’s head out to see those chairs. Therese, we will see you at eight o’clock.” 

Business settled, Abby breezed around the living room space, catching hold of her purse, her coat, her shoes. Each item regained seemed to swirl around her with an energy of its own. Therese could hardly believe the woman was able to assemble herself so finely with such verve and spin. Yet, there she stood, waiting for Carol—who, to Therese’s delight, took her own damn time—perfectly situated. Not for the first time—nor, assuredly, the last—Therese found herself bewildered at the thought of two such women being drawn together. Several last-minute items gotten, comments made, and goodbyes said later, Therese was left standing alone in Carol’s apartment. The cream walls seemed suddenly so vacant and so loud. 

Again, she sighed. Again, she ran her hands over her face. Therese turned back to the bedroom to gather her things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily Post says that one should never say "drapes." The word is too vulgar. "Curtains" is much better. Carol, however is one smart lady, and I am betting that she knows full well Ms. Post is full of it. So, drapes it is.  
> Tell me, how do _you_ feel about the color red? For the drapes.


	4. Falling Deeper and Deeper into the Whirlpool of Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese, Abby, and Carol meet for dinner, conversation, and, ultimately, new plans.

**…**  
Therese shifted her purse more securely into the crook of her arm as the taxicab pulled up to the curb of the street. She glanced down at the slip of paper upon which she had scribbled the address of the restaurant Abby suggested. They had, in fact, arrived. The building was tall—it most likely held overpriced apartments above the businesses below. The restaurant in question took up only a quarter of the block, sitting snug on the corner of the street. Therese thanked and paid the driver, receiving merely a grunt in return. She took her time walking up to the doors of the restaurant. The likelihood that Carol and Abby would arrive on time was all but negligible. 

The street was quiet that evening. Dusk had begun to set, and the lamplights running up the way were already glowing softly. People dotted the walk here and there; their bodies pointed firmly in the direction of their tasks and desires and destinations. A dog barked a block or two down the road. Its bark echoed slightly as it traveled toward Therese, the sound ricocheting against the buildings. The air was so still, so strangely still. Therese was so used to the hustle of the daytime rush in New York. Her evenings were spent in busier neighborhoods or else indoors. The quietude felt alien—fantastical, almost. It recalled her to the long nights of open space and quiet wandering spent with Carol as they crossed the country by car. They had made good time, driving for hours each day, but occasionally, they would stop in some town, visit some store, eat at some restaurant. The simple act of walking down a road with Carol beside her in a little Midwestern town had seemed, at the time, so incredibly daring. The briefest touch of Carol’s hand to Therese’s arm—a gesture intended to alert her to a particular window display or a diner she wished to enter—had sent shockwaves through Therese’s entire being. Of course, at the time they were merely dancing around attraction. The gesture itself was not inappropriately intimate, and Therese knew it would never have been read as such. And yet. On the inside, with her heartstrings knotted up in a bowline, each movement sent her falling deeper and deeper into the whirlpool of Carol—Carol, Carol, and everything more that was Carol. Nearby, a church steeple chimed out eight monotonic notes.

Therese approached the restaurant front and leaned against the stone column framing one side of the door. She looked down at her shoes and shook her head at them. She was always in deep with Carol, always in trouble. From the moment they had caught sight of one another across Frankenburg’s crowded department store floor. 

A cool breeze picked up and drifted over the street. Therese drew the sides of her coat a little closer to her and shoved her hands deep into its pockets. She let out a huff of air and glanced around. Her eyes fixed on a shop window across the street. Inside, on display, sat a rack of hats trussed with feathers, netted veils, or wide, ribboned brims. One such hat, a small emerald green thing, sat nestled between an Edwardian domed monstrosity and a black juliette cap. It was simple in design and bright in color, and its shape held Therese’s gaze like it was made to fit there. Therese felt her lips rise up in a brilliant smile at the sight, her mind sent reeling back into memories. 

**…**

_“Oh. I love that,” Therese crooned at a shop window. She had stopped mid-stride, and it took a few steps longer for Carol to realize she was no longer by her side._

_“That hat?” Carol asked. Therese nodded, her eyes still glued to the hat in question._

_It was a green shell-shaped cap—wool, bright, and accented with three gold buttons running along the rim. Therese thought it was stunning. She owned so many ragged and floppy hats. Not one of them was as beautiful as this._

_“It suits you,” Carol mused. Therese glanced at her. “It would suit your eyes.”_

_Therese started. Carol knew her eye color. Carol had noticed her eyes! Before she could succumb to the swirling dizziness that rustled about in her head, Carol was leading her into the shop to a rack of hats inside._

_Therese laughed as she grabbed the nearest mushroom-brim hat—dull lavender in color—and plopped it on her head. “What do you think? Too horrendous or just enough?”_

_Carol smirked, “God, that is terrible.” Therese took the hat off and returned it to its stand. Carol shifted beside her._

_“Hmm, try this one,” Carol picked a hat off its stand and placed it carefully atop Therese’s head. Therese stopped breathing. Carol was so close to her, so close. Her hands lingered a second longer than was necessary, fingers hovering next to the hat’s edges—palms floating on either side of Therese’s face. And time itself stopped moving. She could feel the heat of Carol’s palms pulsing against the heat of her own cheeks. And, Carol—Carol held her eyes. She had tilted her head ever so slightly. Her eyes were crinkled as if searching for something, some sign, in her expression. The moment seemed to stretch out for miles—Therese feeling the hair resting on her cheeks sparking under Carol’s body heat and Carol staring, searching, back at Therese—and, was that a slight flush on her cheeks? But suddenly Therese’s lungs were screaming. Suddenly she relieved her breath in a tiny, roaring gust. And, as suddenly, Carol had released her…_

**…**

“You’re here. Aren’t you a prompt one.” Abby called out to Therese. She was in a long brown coat, a scarf tied around her hair. As walked, she pulled her sunglasses off, chewing on the tip of the glasses’ right arm.

Abby and Carol had parked Abby’s car on the street around the corner. Carol walked beside Abby, and they made their way over to Therese. She looked tired, if proud. She wore a vague smile—the kind that told Therese there would have to be tea or alcohol in their immediate future. Abby, on the other hand, strolled forward with all her usual confidence and verve. Therese pushed herself off the wall and followed them into the restaurant.

She blinked away the haze of sunlight impressed upon her sightline as she entered the much dimmer restaurant. The interior was done over in dark wood and wine-red cushions. Booths lined the walls of the dining area and tables covered in cloths and little flickering tealights dotted the open space. The room had a dingy veneer to it, but this only added to its cozy charm. The ceilings were low, the wood varnish slightly dulled, and the air filled with a soothing mixture of cigarette smoke and piano sounds. 

Abby and Carol walked directly over to a corner booth and sat on opposite sides. Clearly, this was a regular activity. Therese noticed her stomach squirm with the uncomfortable reminder that she was intruding upon a familiar tradition. She slipped into the booth beside Carol, making sure to leave a generous distance between them. It was… strange. She had never sat beside Carol before at a booth. On the rare occasions when they ate with other people, they still managed to sit on opposite sides of the table. Then again, they had never shared a meal with anyone who knew their… situation before either.  
Even with a foot between them, Therese found that she was acutely aware of the presence of Carol’s body beside her. She trained her eyes on the salt and peppershakers, trying desperately not to be consumed by the movements of the woman to her right. 

Abby and Carol did not seem to notice her preoccupation. A waiter came to deliver menus. Abby took hers, glancing at its interior even as she rattled off a familiar order. Carol waved her hand carelessly, declining the offered menu. She, too, knew her order by practice, and added a round of martinis for the table. Therese opened her own menu and rushed down the options. Even the few seconds of deliberation felt like an imposition. “I’ll have the clam chowder, please.” She smiled at the waiter who returned the gesture vacantly. He gathered the menus, nodded, and left. 

Abby watched Therese for a beat. Therese shifted uneasily. She had a feeling that these dinners were not usually such silent affairs. 

“Have you ever been here before, Therese?” Abby asked suddenly. She was no longer looking at her. Instead, she seemed to inspect the table, running a finger across the length of its edge and picking at a divot in the varnish. 

“No,” Therese responded simply. _Say something else. Say something else._ But she could not think of anything else to say. What on earth had Abby invited her here for?

“I love this place. It is a dive, sure. But it is home.” Abby continued. “Granted,” she quirked a lip and glanced up at Carol, “I initially voted for Tony Pastor’s joint, but Carol here drew a hard line.”

Carol rolled her eyes and sighed with relief as the waiter returned with the drink cart. The three women watched as he mixed the cocktails, stirred the contents, and poured out three martinis. Only after he departed did Carol respond. 

“That place is backed by the mob,” she scoffed.

“So they say,” Abby nodded.

“I don’t know it,” Therese ventured to add.

Abby’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? It’s quite the locale. It’s always getting raided by the police, of course. But what’s a raid between friends?” She chuckled to herself and took a sip of her drink.

Carol chuffed, “Abby thinks it is a thrill to flirt with the legal system. That is why she drives like a maniac, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. She needs something to lift the humdrum of her day-to-day.” Across the table, Abby lifted her glass in a mocking toast to Carol’s prognosis, winking.

“Why does it get raided?” Therese asked. A part of her wanted to give in to the flow of things. To play the unexpected receiver of Carol and Abby’s conversation and fade into the booth. Yet another part of her pushed to contribute, to add something to the conversation that would solidify her as much more than a doormat. This time, the latter part of her won out.

At her question, Carol and Abby exchanged a glance. Carol cleared her throat, and swirled her drink with her olives. Abby’s brows drew together at the move, but she turned to Therese with the air of an educator. “Morality infringements,” she said simply. 

Therese’s brow furrowed. 

Abby took a breath. “Tony’s has a particular clientele that the… powers that be don’t quite appreciate.” She smirked, “Too many broads in suits loitering outside bar for the public’s comfort.”

Ah. _Particular clientele._ Therese felt her mouth run dry, her heartrate leap and canter for a moment. Unconsciously, she glanced around the dining area, checking to see if anyone nearby had heard, could tell, could sense them or the implications Abby had voiced. She had been so comfortable saying such things! How did one get comfortable saying such things? 

Beside her, Carol ran a hand down her face, and relaxed a little into the seat. She had settled in the far right of the booth, flush to the wall. She continued to stir her drink, watching the olive make its rounds around the perimeter of the glass. Their food came, the plates distributed to their proper owners, and all the while, Carol watched her glass.

Therese was concerned. Had something happened while she and Abby were out? Had the deal gone poorly? Was this Carol sulking?—it seemed unlikely. Or, was it something she had done? Was it her presence here, in their normal and _private_ time that was making Carol so withdrawn, so cold.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Abby asked, tilting her head. Therese glanced at Abby, who was watching Carol carefully.

“Hmm,” Carol returned. She swirled her olive once more and looked up from her drink. She leaned her head against the booth’s back and turned her face toward Therese for the first time since they had arrived at the restaurant. She smiled—just slightly, almost melancholically, but a smile nonetheless. Therese’s heart thrummed in a combination of thrill, joy, and fear. 

Abby let the moment steep for a few seconds longer before she broke in again, leaning in toward the two women, “So did you see the hostess by the entrance? The one holding the menus? Brunette… tall?”

Therese nearly choked on her martini. Carol chuckled dryly and turned to Abby, “Oh no.”

Abby sat up, “What?” 

“Abby, if you break her heart, and we have to stop coming here, I will not forgive you,” she explained.

Abby balked, “If I break her heart? What about _my_ heart?” 

Carol raised an eyebrow. Abby shrugged. Therese could not believe her ears. Again, she glanced around. No one was nearby nor cared. The place was nearly empty. 

Abby waved off Therese’s concern. “Alright, _alright_. Fine.” She sounded irritable, but she was smiling. “So. What’s really on your mind?”

Carol sighed. She sat forward, cradled her face in her right hand, and leaned against the table. Some small part of Therese reeled. Such a posture on Carol was so foreign to her. She remembered the bewilderment she had felt that night at the restaurant, seeing Carol unsure of herself. She felt something similar now—somewhat dimmer, somewhat softer, but similar. Carol had always been such an elusive, statuesque figure. Like the human embodiment of smoke—she was a sensuous experience to behold but ephemeral, opaque, ungraspable. Her composure was an edifice—one that she still had yet to eschew when she and Therese were alone. Therese could feel an avalanche of doubt and questions rumble in her mind, threatening to drown out her attention completely. _But_ why _not?_ She stymied the onslaught as best she could and returned to the matter at hand.

Beside her, Carol was speaking in a low voice, “I think I thought this new job would make… things make sense,” she waved her hand and shook her head at a spot on the booth’s wall to the right of Abby. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I thought that.” She lifted her glass, “Clearly I was wrong.” She took a long drink of her cocktail.

“…Things?” Abby prompted.

Carol finished sipping with a groan, “ _Things_ ,” she insisted with a faintly quivering voice, “Rindy. F-fucking _Harge_. My job. My… my place in this godforsaken life. God, Abby, I have been married and trying so hard not to play the little wife for so long that I hardly know what to do with myself. I thought that fighting him was the same as being my own person. Apparently, the only person who was fooled by that charade was me.” Carol closed her eyes and rubbed her forefingers across her forehead bitterly, tiredly. 

Therese felt herself sink into a dark, dark hole. Like a section of the booth had opened and swallowed her up. A chill crept up her spine, soaked the nape of her neck, and washed over her shoulders. She could feel the blood draining from her face, glued her gaze to the tabletop. Could she have been so naïve as to think Carol was as happy as she? That their being together had fixed anything, changed anything? And how could she not have _known,_ not have _seen_ Carol feeling this? 

Did any of it even matter to her?

Abby scoffed, “Stop that. You know yourself just fine. You’re in a strange position. _Of course_ you feel lost.” She reached across the table to grab Carol’s hand, ensuring her attention. “And things aren’t all bad. You said yourself that you are going to be seeing Rindy more—a weekend a month. Once Harge pulls his head out of his ass, it will be more than that.” She leaned back, letting go of Carol’s hand. “Harge can go to hell as far as I am concerned.” She crossed her arms, peering at Carol with an appraising eye. “You think you fooled yourself; that everything was just some rebellion, something to do on a Sunday afternoon, huh?”

Carol glared up at her, looked back down, shook her head, exasperated. She did not want to hear any of it.

“Did you and I happen just to spite Harge?” Abby said finally, her voice chillingly even.

Carol’s face shot up, eyes wide. She looked furious, trapped, surprised, panicked—a thousand things. Even in her own spiral, Therese marveled at that face, letting the wash of emotions that crossed it pass over her. 

“Of _course_ not,” Carol answered. Her voice was a harsh, broken whisper. “Of course not,” she repeated, quieter, softer. 

“And Therese?” Therese’s attention snapped to Abby before swiveling back to see Carol staring at her with eyes wider still. Therese felt as if all of the moisture in her body, in the room itself, perhaps even in the whole world, had evaporated. She wanted to shrivel up, to be anywhere but there—parched and dying and _burning_ under that wild gaze. 

Carol turned back to Abby, “I— _No_. How could you even— _No_ , for god’s sake, no.” For the first time, Therese noticed that Carol’s dinner still sat before her, completely cold, untouched. A corner of her mind wished so much that she would eat.

“So it was all you then? Intentionally. You want to be with Therese for _you_?” Abby kept pushing. Therese didn’t know whether to cheer her on or throw something at her, anything, to stop her from talking.

“ _Yes_ ,” Carol hissed. Her hands were balled up and pressed against the booth’s seat, her knuckles bone-white.

“Well, great. Now that that is settled, I have only one more question for you.” Abby was still staring directly at Carol, unblinking. Her mouth a wry, hard line.

“ _What_?”

“Would you like another martini, because I know I need another drink after all of this.”

Abby looked at Carol, her face utterly, pleasantly serious. Carol stared back, her mouth opened slightly in surprise or outrage or something else Therese could not quite discern. Therese, for her part, was stunned. She didn’t know what to expect next. Carol could hit Abby, storm off, break down into tears, screams—anything. At this point, nothing seemed impossible. 

Carol released a huff of air, let her head fall back, and slowly she began to laugh. She dropped her head down, ran a hand over her face.

“You are an absolute menace,” she said finally, groaning through fingers. Abby broke out a sly grin. 

“I do what I can.” Abby signaled for the waiter to return and refresh their drinks. Therese sat back against the back of the booth hard. She felt like she was playing emotional catch-up, still strung and thrown from the conversation still hanging above them in the air. 

Was it always such a whirlwind? She had to wonder. And she had to recuperate, to regain her balance. Sometimes, in moments like these, she felt so young. She knew that Carol and Abby had been friends for years, that their relationship had seen them through so many catastrophes and joys. She could also recognize the efficacy of Abby’s prying tactic and Carol’s outburst. It was a game of power and control with its own logical working. It produced catharsis; It depended upon trust; It came from love—all such elements were written into each of Abby’s impetuous questions and Carol’s hissed retorts. Witnessing such a battle had been excruciating, fascinating, phenomenal, and incredibly awkward—but that, in itself, was not what disturbed Therese so acutely. 

Therese was so utterly thrown by the problems and concerns Carol had outlined. Problems that she had witnessed, had been aware of, but had just… missed. In no small part due to her own inability to conceive of being in the same circumstances herself. She didn’t often feel worlds away from Carol. Well, never because of her age at any rate. Carol was magnetic and walked through the world wielding that power. In a perverse way, it had a leveling affect for them. Because her attraction for Carol had nothing to do with numbers. It was about that magnetism, that charismatic, mystical attentiveness—that painful chill when she turned her attention elsewhere. It was so easy for Therese to forget that Carol had lived decades of life without her, had had so many experiences that Therese herself—Well, were she a normal girl, she supposed—could have expected waiting for her in her future. 

But Carol—Carol had been _married_. Carol had had a daughter, had been pregnant, had gone through school and a job and a life. For whatever reason—naivety, youth, priorities—Therese had never considered this. Carol had always just been… Carol. Here and now. Hers. And not hers. Floating, distant, burning, and somewhat ghostly. The thought that she, too,—or she, moreso—had been firmly entrenched in life, had been _rooted_ once… it was nearly unthinkable. Inconceivable. Startling. 

Therese was wrenched back to reality as she felt Carol’s hand resting lightly over her own on the tabletop. Ah, here she was again, pulling her up and out of herself with a simple gesture, a shock of warmth. As soon as her face turned to meet the blonde woman, the hand was gone—returned to its proper position. Therese was suddenly aware that Abby and Carol both watched her expectantly.

“Um. Sorry—what?” She spluttered. _Oh, please stop looking at me._ Under their eyes, she was a pinned insect specimen—splayed, stuck, studied. It was altogether unpleasant. 

Abby prolonged her gaze for a moment longer before turning her attention to her glass. She stirred the liquid with her empty toothpick. “I was just suggesting to Carol that she throw herself a little housewarming party. Get herself back into the groove of things.” She shrugged at Carol, “You know, invite some of the socialite friends. Show them that you are neither dead nor defeated. It’d really piss off Harge, too,” she added as an afterthought. 

“Oh.” Therese didn’t know what else to say, nor exactly why this was relevant for her to know. 

“… And Carol wanted to know what you thought about the whole thing. Especially given that it would be something of your party, too.” Abby spoke slowly, her eyebrows raised, as if explaining an incredibly obvious notion to an incredibly stupid child. 

_Oh._ It would be both of them. Together. As a…. _together_? 

“Are you sure that is a good idea?” Therese asked Carol. 

Carol smiled at her. “Well, no. I’m not entirely sure of anything at the moment. But I do like the sound of it. And I could use a little normalcy in my life, quite frankly.”

Because nothing about them was normal, of course. Therese pushed away that thought. “But… are you sure you want me… there? I mean, wouldn’t it look…” Therese did not know quite the right word. _Obvious? Suspect?... Queer?_ She swallowed hard.

Carol furrowed her brow while Abby scoffed. “Oh, please.”

Carol shot Abby a look before calmly responding, “Oh course I want you there. Everything will be fine. It would be a small party. Something with closer friends, maybe some work acquaintances.” Carol’s face grew more serious; her lips pursed slightly, her brow furrowed. “Therese, anyone who heard about the injunction and _cared_ enough to avoid me would not be there. But I do want this.”

“No, no, no,” Abby broke in, “This will _help_ you. It will stake your claim on friends you want to keep, and it will show Harge and his—anyone that thinks you’re going to just hide away in some cave or something. Besides,” She added, smirking. “ _I_ will be there. If you think anyone—even you, Therese—can out-scandalize a bunch of housewives, you are sorely mistaken.” 

Abby’s flippant remarks seemed only to amuse Carol, to reassure her like a familiar tune. Therese sighed and searched the surface of her martini for answers that would never be there. She could see that she wasn’t winning this battle.

**…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some things:
> 
> 1) I have kind of pulled Therese's discomfort with public discussion or displays of sexuality out of a combination of things. Highsmith herself was pretty brash and got around--she had no problem with being sexual, but she didn't talk about her sexuality openly. Or, at any rate, she resisted doing so. Highsmith and Therese are such intertwined figures that it is hard not to use one on characterizing the other. Additionally, Carol is a highly private woman. I imagine the relationship dynamic between Therese and her as openly affectionate but publicly discreet. The setting of the 50s, the context of Carol's recent legal issues--all of that would inform this. I'm mentioning this because I still feel strangely about how Therese's privacy came about in the chapter ultimately. Maybe you can let me know how it reads. I definitely think she is still that wildly expressive, letter-writing and picture-taking love voyeur she is in private. 
> 
> 2) I feel like when Carol and Abby were out trying to buy chairs, Carol probably had a moment where she had to confront being somewhat present in the world she'd previously occupied--but, totally independent now. Totally just her. Being with Therese was its own kind of bubble--rewarding but separate from the sphere of living she'd come from. I imagine that realization would give her some immediate sense of dislocation, unease, and panic--nothing she can't get over, but undoubtedly disorienting in the moment.
> 
> 3) This chapter is crazy long in comparison to the others. As such, it will probably be more than two days before I update--like a whole four or something likewise wild. I just didn't have the heart to split up the dinner scene into two chapters.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. I love hearing all your thinking-along considerations on characterization in the comments.


	5. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vignettes: Therese muses on Carol and Abby's party plans; Therese has a question for Dannie; Therese readies herself for the party.

Therese folded the blanket mechanically. Her mind was elsewhere, was still stuck in that dark little restaurant. She played again and again the scenes of the haphazard dinner like a nightmarish film. So fraught, so fast. How had all that happened in only a few hours? 

She flipped over a corner, pulled it toward her, lined up the edges. Her eyes grazed the ridged window trim, following the line of it to the upper left corner. She sighed. She felt as if a swarm of bees were trapped in her chest. It was a buzzing pressure that threatened to burst forth. She wasn’t entirely sure that her chest could withstand the pressure—that it wouldn’t crack open, releasing winged droves, electric, humming tension. The blanket in her hands became a quartered square. She threw it onto the bed with too much heft as Carol strolled through the open doorway, tightening her left earring as she did so. The older woman paused, hands still poised to their task. 

“What did the blanket do to you?” Carol asked. There was laughter coursing through the question. Therese didn’t need to look over to know the way her lips were quirking up at the edges. 

“Nothing,” she returned. She hoped she sounded aloof. Unbothered. Anything to avoid talking about this. 

Carol stared at Therese for a beat. And then another. “Therese—” she began. Her voice was more measured, even. Her tone stepped lightly over the syllables of Therese’s name, rather than cascading down the “—rese” as was usual. Therese felt that cold chill creep over her neck, that empty pitted sensation hollow out her stomach—the same feelings she felt in any confrontation. It was so unpleasant, so difficult to get the words ballooning in her throat to come out in the same shape and size as the thoughts in her head. So often no one quite _understood_ , they entirely jumped to conclusions, and then look where that led—Therese let out a puff of air and twisted her toes into the carpet. She just did _not_ want to talk about it. Not now. Maybe not ever. Couldn’t they just skip over it, and go back to the other morning, the blissful peace of… just them?

Carol did not take her eyes off her. She rounded the room, coming to sit on the edge of the bed just next to where Therese stood. She did not say anything for a moment, merely supported herself on one arm, leaning back slightly. Watching Therese. Thinking— _god, what must she be thinking?_

_What are you thinking? God, do you know how many times a day I ask you that?_ Therese almost smiled recollecting the echo of her own frustration. Perhaps it was just a people thing—miscommunication, crossed wires, the like. Perhaps they would always be on different wave lengths, always be a little disjointed from one another. But wasn’t that part of the appeal? Wasn’t that itself a draw? Two lines that intersect only do so once before they part, never to reunite. Parallel lines never touch, never occupy the same space—maybe never fully understand one another—but they run together always. Wasn’t that something, at least? Just to run together?

“Why don’t you invite some guests to our little party next Saturday?” Carol said finally, breaking Therese from her reverie. “It would be good for you to have some other people here. And anyway, it’s practically your party, too.” Therese’s mind spun out momentarily. Who on earth could she invite to such a party? To such a clashing of two worlds. “I know you still have… reservations about the apartment. About moving in fully, and I can understand that—but, really, Therese. You all but live here—I know, I _know_. You don’t. Not really.” She waved a lazy hand to silence Therese’s protest. The younger woman clamped her mouth shut and frowned. “Not yet, anyway.” Carol smiled. Her face softened. She ran a hand casually through her hair, pushing a row of golden curls back from either side of her face. “I’ve never met any of them, you know. Your friends. You’ve come to countless dinners with me. Suffered through, I should say. But, I suppose it’d be harder to explain… me… the other way round.” Her face drew closed again. Therese felt a deep-seated urge in her stomach, a desire to somehow reach in and pull Carol out of herself. The woman sat, frowning slightly. Quiet and still. Shutters closed, curtains drawn, doors locked—Carol was a closed book once more. How, how could she find her way in past those locks, those barricades? And what was it that swung the hinges shut in the first place? Surely she should be able to—she of all people? Wasn’t that how love worked?

But then Carol was looking up at her. Carol was expecting an answer. Carol was wanting her to say yes. And say yes she did. She felt her lips form the word, her tongue sculpt the affirmation miles beyond, worlds beyond her conscious mind. Baffling. Carol, and only Carol, did the most baffling things to her. Involuntarily, she answered each call. Involuntarily and yet so, so willingly.

Therese had remembered reading about voluntary and involuntary reflexes in the body. Like scratching an itch or moving your hand away when you touch something too hot or too cold. She had always been fascinated by the way the categories would bend, crumble, splinter under the weight of their own distinctions. How breathing could be so necessary, automatic, but you could—if you had to, you could force yourself to hold your breath. 

But where was the boundary between a behavior learned and a reflex that becomes involuntary? _When had she ever refused to see Carol when Carol wanted to see her?_ When had saying “yes” to Carol become an automatic response?  


**…**

  


Therese scanned the page of messy handwriting, leaned in to squint at a smudged letter. Was that a ‘T’ or an ‘I’? She reread the sentence. T. Her fingers moved automatically, resuming their quick dance across the typewriter’s keys. Absently, she glanced at a clock hanging in the upper left corner of the room, catty-corner to her desk. Eleven forty-five. Fifteen minutes until her break. Thank god. 

Most days, Therese was just happy enough to be working. She appreciated the hustle and bustle of running errands and assembling notes for the _Times_ editors. She appreciated their appreciation of her. And, anyway, eventually she would be promoted. George from Photography had said as much—he’d promised to take in some more of her shots to show the editors. With any luck, they’d take to something she’d shot and give her an in for the next open position. And wouldn’t that be something.

But, then again, this wasn’t most days. Today, Therese was weighed down with thoughts like storm clouds. She could barely see for all the fog, the billowing questions and worries lazily drifting around her mind. She finished typing a line on the letter, registered the chime of the typewriter, and readjusted the arm. And sighed. And glanced once more at the clock: Eleven fifty-two. Oh hell. 

Therese finished typing the letter, pausing thereafter to give the job a quick once-over. Satisfied, she waved it in the air for a few seconds, ensuring all the ink had dried, before folding and placing it in a letter. As she addressed her work and pushed out her desk chair, she heard three sharp raps on the doorframe. 

“Hey, stranger. How about some lunch?”

Dannie stood there in his typical button-down flannel print. He leaned against the frame, easy and sure, his head tilted slightly to the left. He held in his hand a rolled up paper sack. He had a long smile slung across his lips. Oh, Dannie. Sweet and simple Dannie. Therese grinned back at him. “Please. Let me just—” She finished placing the letter in the departmental outgoing mailbox, and grabbed her sweater. It was finally getting warm enough that she no longer needed a coat, but the wind encouraged a light sweater. “There. Okay, ready.” She grabbed her own tin containing a lunch.

They left the building, walking a little ways down the road to an open bench. Dannie gestured at the bench, shrugging at Therese. She nodded in return. They settled into their seats, pulling out sandwiches from their bags. In some ways, it felt juvenile, like they were children at recess. But then, Dannie always felt so young to her. Made her feel young, too. 

Around them, the street was only mildly busy. People milled here and there, intent on their destinations, but not rushed. The air itself seemed somewhat relaxed. Perhaps sedated. Odd for a mid-day. It was… nice. Quiet. The cooler breeze drifting around them carried with it smells of nearby restaurants, street-side vendors, and automobile exhaust. Cars shushed by, but lazily. Like, for today at least, time didn’t quite work in that corner of the city.

“So,” Dannie said after a while, speaking around a bite of sandwich. “I haven’t seen you around in a while. Or, anyway. You haven’t been at Phil’s last few parties.”

“Oh. Yeah,” She scoured her mind for an explanation. Anything. “I’ve been… busy.” Therese took a bit of food. It was a good excuse not to keep answering.

Dannie watched her for a moment before, finally, nodding through a frown. “Well, did you see that Mary Ann Dorr exhibit a while back? I think it was at the—“

“Oh, the “Young Strangers” one? At the Museum—“

“That’s the one.”

“Yes.”

Dannie blinked. “Well? What did you think?” He held out his hands to her, swinging his sandwich to prompt her, “Extol. Expand. Opine.”

Therese blew out a breath of air. Expand. “I thought… what did I think? I thought her work was incredible. In-intrusive? Or, I mean, can something be so vague, so… oh, I don’t know, _impersonal_ , and still be intrusive?”

Dannie took another bite of his sandwich, nodding. Thinking. Watching people and dogs walking. He swallowed, “Don’t we intrude every day? On people and things we never knew the names of? Everything is connected, right? So one move, one little something, and you’ve run into the life of another person.”

Therese held the silence that followed. Lunches like this were nice. So easy, so relaxed. She didn’t need to talk to Dannie, nor he to her. But they did. They talked about a great lot of things—photography, because he knew she liked it, books, movies. All bookended by such soft silences. Silences like this made Therese wonder why she hadn’t tried harder with Dannie. They might have been something, mightn’t they? But, as she glanced over at him, sitting there, smirking at a boy across the way playing with his dog, she knew better. Dannie was _too_ … good in some ways. Too willing, too present, too… oh, who knows what. Just _too_. And, in the face of all things Carol—that enigmatic and elusive challenge that was Carol—how could someone so tangible, so eager ever compete? 

But she thought about what he’d said. It was like ripples. Ripples of one life onto another. Ripples of her life onto into Carol’s. Her stomach lurched a little. _Everything is connected, right?_

“What are you doing next Saturday?” she heard herself asking. A great part of her wished she could open her mouth and gulp down the words, suck them back into her throat and rescind their existence. Another part of her watched them reach Dannie anxiously, impatiently. She balled up the paper wrapping from her lunch, clutching it tightly— _desperately?_ ¬—in hand.

“What, like, one of Phil’s parties or something? Are you asking because you’re going to show or because you want to know which neighborhoods to avoid?” He smirked at her. She threw the wadded up paper ball at him. He chuckled and turned back to watch some passersby walk the length of the sidewalk across the street.

“No, more like, I mean do you have some hot date that night, or will you come to a party with me?”

“With you?” Dannie glanced at her.

“For me,” She corrected. Her heart skipped a little, and she could feel her palms begin to sweat. “With me as a friendly favor.”

Dannie nodded, turned back to watch a woman heading into a nearby office building. She seemed frantic, anxious. “Yeah, alright. I’ll go with you, for you.”

Therese smiled at him, looked down at her lap, and nodded, more to herself, perhaps, than he. Well that was something, wasn’t it? 

“Whose party?”

Therese blinked. “Hm?”

“Whose party is it that we’re going to?” Dannie repeated again, more slowly this time.

Oh. Oh, how to explain?

**…**

 

Therese squinted at herself in the mirror, pushing a strand of hair back into place. She felt ridiculous. Her cocktail dress, an emerald green number that Carol had insisted she wear—one “Please, darling,” and she had crumpled to the request. She smoothed the silky fabric down, lightly traced the slight pleats where the skirt met the bodice. It was beautiful. It was… too beautiful. It belonged to a different world. On a different body. She sighed, reaching across the vanity for a tube of red lipstick. Carol’s tube of red lipstick. As she twisted the tube, watching the stick of cosmetic cream emerge, she wondered at the barest grooves on the tip of it where there were some beads of grit—were those from her? Marks left from Carol spreading it across her lips. Tracks of Carol. Footsteps, breadcrumbs, of a sort. Therese felt a violent urge to put the whole thing in her mouth, to eat the stick, to consume Carol, to taste the remainder of Carol’s lips. She felt dizzy, rushed and swept and carried by the desire. Monstrous. As suddenly as it had come, the feeling peaked, like a howl roaring through the room, her mind, her body—and so did it go. She frowned, twisted the stick back down to a usable height, traced her lips. How odd that one could paint one’s own face. It was so red, so Carol. So strange. 

“Beautiful,” came that familiar, low voice from the doorway. Like a thunderstorm, Therese mused. Her eyes shifted from her own in the mirror over to Carol’s in reflection. Even as a flat echo of herself, her gaze still sent little shivering pains up along the line of Therese’s chest. 

Therese looked away, focusing on closing the tube and straightening her dress once more.

“The green _does_ look good on you,” Carol continued, easing into the room. 

It was never more apparent to Therese that Carol, that _loving Carol_ , was a form of quicksand. Under her eyes, Therese was always sinking, sinking, sinking. There was no ground to keep or foundation to cling to—the world itself ever gave away under her feet, swallowed her whole. Therese frowned.

She felt Carol’s hand land lightly on her upper arm. Perhaps sinking was not such a bad thing. Perhaps drowning could be a kind of salvation? And, like water, she eddied and was re-shaped by that touch. Her body folded into Carol, pressed against Carol. 

Carol let out a surprised puff of air at the sudden contact. She stiffened—suddenly rigid with shock—before bringing a hand up to stroke Therese’s head. 

And once again, she was a swirling, shifting thing. She was suspended by those gray eyes, held aloft by those red lips. She breathed in. Perfume billows and cotton accents. She breathed out, her soul escaping, reaching for Carol—

And Carol and Carol and Carol and Carol and Carol and Carol and Carol and Carol…

There was a galaxy of words afloat before her eyes, a galaxy of phrases she wanted to say, couldn’t say, had to say. _I love you, I want you, I could trace the lines of you for hours, for days, the taste of you is everything, you are everything, I want to hold you so close that our bodies melt into one._ A galaxy of words folded into prayers, folded into wishes, odes, blazons—each turned and facing Carol. And Therese watched their glinting, their crystalline delicacy, their sweet ringing refrains. Like music was humming through the air. Such beauty made her teeth ache and her eyes itch. The nape of her neck prickled at the thought of grasping the words, biting into them, handing them to Carol, kissing them to Carol…

But, of course, such a thing was only ever such a fantasy. Therese knew that exultations and demonstrations of affection made Carol quiet, stilled her electricity. Their romance, their tethers were strung up along the in-between, the silent gaps cushioning the words. It flourished in their glances and unfurled in their small smiles. It fed on their simultaneous need to touch and refusal to yield to that need—on the distance they kept between their bodies, which, like an ache, was felt and felt and felt.

“Therese?” Carol murmured; her breath pushed a few strands of the younger woman’s hair. She was going to ask what was going through her mind. She would wonder at Therese’s closeness, her push and her pull, her silence. She would question her intensities. Therese felt the ghost of a scream spin around her throat—a roughness, a panic, a thrill, a tremor—but not release. She couldn’t answer her. She didn’t know the answers herself —if there were answers; what were the answers? Why why why why _why_ —but, no. Not now. She just needed to keep her, to keep hold of this smoke-like woman. To pretend her insides were not reeling and her mind not wild. 

She sucked in a breath and pulled away. Her every nerve seared in protest. Plastering a smile on her face, she simply said, “I borrowed your lipstick. Is that okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the story continues. 
> 
> One of the things I loved the most about the book was how wild and intense Therese's musings on her feelings for Carol were. How much that intensity verged on and flirted with a kind of viciousness. Hers was not a soft or kind form of love... And I very much believe it would induce her to almost eat a tube of lipstick.


	6. As They Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for the party, and Therese would really rather be anywhere but there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about timelines: 
> 
> I hadn't thought much about the way time would come off in this fic as the sections within the chapter seem to cut and jump so logically in my mind. There seems to be enough gray space for the timeline to be somewhat mutable.  
> That said, I am not writing this as a series of events that have happened within the span of a few days. If Therese walked back to Carol in late April, I imagine the chapter with Abby interrupting them picked up a few days thereafter. Then, Carol's party was a couple of weeks after that--not an extensive length of time separating events, but they are not immediately subsequent, either. I am imagining space between these--air between the sentences, if you will.  
> That said, it isn't a rigid timeline. If you would rather imagine that this is all happening in a quick sequential order, there is enough ambivalence that you can do that.

\---  
The room had been so empty leading up to the party. It seemed like the blink of an eye before the room was teeming with unfamiliar faces and laughing people. There was Abby in the corner, leaning against the windowsill, gesturing with her cigarette. A throng of people surrounded her, laughing—some, as promised, looking quite uncomfortable all the while. Near the kitchen door stood Carol, holding her own court. She had been floating around the room all evening, glowing at guests, introducing one person to the next. Each person she passed followed her with their eyes—out of envy or adoration or admiration. Or curiosity. Most of the party seemed to consist of people Carol had known for years. But dotted among the housewives and socialites was the occasional artist, writer, or scholar. Therese wondered if those invites had been Carol’s, Abby’s, or for her own benefit. She’d clearly not risen to the task of providing her own company of guests. 

Dannie returned from grabbing them drinks—a glass of champagne each. They were standing near the front door, close to the wall and slightly separated from the crowd. Therese didn’t mind. She didn’t particularly feel like mingling. And, for the fifth time that evening, Therese found herself silently thanking him that he had agreed to come.

“Gee, these rich people parties really are something aren’t they?” He handed her a glass. “Do you think they even enjoy this stuff or is it all white noise past a certain income bracket?” He looked out at the crowd of people, following Therese’s gaze to land on Carol. “That her?” 

She blushed, turning back to him. “You said you had some film to tell me about.”

Dannie raised his eyebrows for a beat, but followed the turn. “Yeah— _In the Street_. It’s this little film—maybe 15 minutes? 20 minutes? Something short. By some woman… Levitt, I think. She took these hidden cameras—which, can you believe?—and just recorded a bunch of kids playing in the streets. Just playing. But it is… it is something wild. I’ve never seen anything like it, Therese. We should go—I think it’s still showing at that cinema down from my apartment. You’ll love it.”

As Dannie spoke, Therese watched the people wandering around Carol’s apartment. In a corner near them stood a thin woman with short hair, heavy eyelids, and a resting pout. She watched the room, surveying the people with a kind of passive fascination. In her hand, she held a cigarette that burned away on its own, unsmoked. Therese wondered at her. She wasn’t speaking to anyone—seemed only present, there, next to a man who animatedly conversed with two other men. The woman’s eyes flicked over to meet Therese’s. Therese quickly began to inspect the ground. When she guessed it would be safe to resurface, she scanned the room again for the strange woman but could not find her. Where had she gone? Instead, Therese caught Abby’s eyes. The woman leaned against a bookcase with her entourage of conversation partners, swirling the liquid in her glass around and around, nearly spilling the liquid each time. How was she always so at ease? She seemed to fold and bend into space—without wilting, somehow. Therese thought back to Abby’s comfort at talking about so many things—girls she liked, places where girls like that frequented. Had she always been that way? Would Therese one day be that way? She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted that. Abby raised her eyebrows at Therese. She’d been staring. Therese looked back at Dannie. 

“Say, you ever thought of showing some of your stuff?” Dannie asked her, pulling Therese back to the present. “At one of those new galleries or something?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What would I show?” Therese followed the bubbles in her champagne glass, tracking their journey to the surface. They always got there. Eventually.

“You’ve got that whole portfolio, don’t you? You put together things for the _Times_ job? Show something from there.” Dannie squinted at her, smiling. He did this. Goaded her. It was probably a good thing, but Therese felt less gratitude than annoyance in the moment.

Therese ran her tongue along the tips of her top row of teeth. Maybe. Her mind spun off—showing her photography seemed like a world away from her. Like some sort of fantasy that could only ever be materialized in shadow puppets. She could never see the pictures themselves, just the ideas of them. Just the vague notion of public praise. But wasn’t this the opportunity to make that jump, to get her work out there, make a name for herself?—as they say. 

Dannie watched her face illustrate the course of her thought. She blinked. He shrugged. “You know, the Tanager Gallery is accepting submissions through the end of the month. I could get you the name of the guy in charge of all that.” 

Therese’s lips quirked. She dipped her head, “Fine, alright.” 

Dannie grinned and lifted his glass in a toast to her, “Atta girl.”

Therese pursed her lips, trying to suppress a smile. Shaking her head, she looked up at the room, sweeping her eyes over the crowd. Across the crowd, Carol was talking to a throng of three women. One of them, an older woman in a lavender dress, kept grasping Carol’s arm and laughing at her comments. Old friends, it seemed. Carol seemed warmly accepting of the gestures, if still reserved. Therese traced her form, memorized her movements, named each color that made up Carol—that blue, that red, that gold, that—As if answering a call, Carol looked up at her in that moment. And she smiled. Waved Therese over. Therese bent her head toward Dannie. _Can’t leave him_ , she seemed to say. 

From her spot among the other women, Carol lifted a hand to sweep the hair from either side of her face, lips turned down in a slight frown. Therese took in a deep breath. Guilty. Now she felt guilty. She shook her head, looking down at her glass before taking a drink. No matter. This was a party. Not the time for this, for them. The back of Therese’s neck prickled. She turned to see the heavy-lidded woman from before watching her. The woman started toward them, walking with a gait that was both careful and compelled, somehow. Like she was unsure of each step but had to, just had to, take each one. 

Therese’s mind reeled. She did not know this woman. She did not know what to expect from this woman. Should she run—enter into some other conversation circle so as to remain otherwise occupied? What could she want? Had she seen Therese staring before? 

The woman stopped walking when she was about three feet from Therese. She looked appraisingly up at Therese, her head slightly tilted. Like she was studying her. “I find these parties incredibly dull, but I’ve been told I should make an effort to ‘mingle.’ So here I am. Mingling.” Her voice was light… pale, almost. And droll. Like it sauntered over the syllables half-heartedly.

Therese and Dannie shared a glance. Dannie raised his eyebrows. And shrugged.

“Dannie McElroy,” he said, offering a hand to the woman. “This here’s Therese.” Therese smiled at the woman. 

She tilted her head, flicking her eyes back and forth between them. Therese unconsciously shifted a few inches away from Dannie. 

Extending a hand of her own—slowly, with the fingers slanting down toward the floor—the woman opened her mouth to respond,—

“Oh good. You’ve all met,” came Carol’s voice. She sounded rushed, slightly irritable—like her practiced social graces were opaque, spread out over a less refined emotion. “I had hoped you would.” She stood with her shoulders back, her weight balanced on her right hip, right arm resting of her hip and left, slung across, grasping her right wrist. It was a posture of performed relaxation, Therese noted. It looked casual enough—she was simply talking to friends, simply enjoying conversation. But it was defensive, bracing. Therese looked hard at Carol, trying to catch her eye, trying to ask what was wrong or… or something. She didn’t know what. _Something_.

“Well, yes. Nearly. As I was about to say: Diane. Arbus. I’m in—well, my _husband_ does fashion photography. Ads and such? You know.”

“Diane is a friend of Abby’s,” Carol explained. “She attended one of your showcases, I believe?”

The woman hummed slightly, “Yes. She laughed the whole time from the back of the room.” 

Dannie and Therese glanced at one another again. Would it be rude to go somewhere else, to resume their own conversation?

“Therese works at the _Times_.” Therese heard Carol say. She looked up at Diane and smiled lightly. 

“Oh?” It was a flat sound. Barely bothering to feign interest.

“Yeah, but she’s really a photographer,” Dannie broke in. Carol looked at him. “I mean, she works at the _Times_ right now, sure. But that’s not really what she does. She’s an artist, right?”

Therese had never wished to be invisible more than in that very moment. Diane turned to her anyway. “A photographer? What sort of photos do you take?” Therese opened her mouth to reply, but… she found she didn’t have the words to answer.  
What kind indeed?

“She does pictures of everything—buildings, people, you name it—You have me to thank for that, by the way,” Dannie burst out in a flurry of excitement. He bounced on the balls of his feet, punctuating each remark. Beside him, Carol’s eyebrows had reached a new height. “It’s real New York School stuff. She’ll be a big name one day—you heard it here first.” 

Therese felt her face glowing a brilliant red. Enough to match the lipstick, she didn’t doubt. Why, oh why couldn’t he stop talking? She twisted her foot into the carpet and attempted a small smile.

“It must be nice to have such a supportive husband,” Diane mused at Therese. 

Therese’s mouth opened. She staggered back slightly, a million things flying through her head. _Husband?_ How? Why? When had this mistake happened? And now, she knew she should be calmly, politely correcting the woman—it was a misunderstanding. Not her fault. Not a fault at all, in fact. But instead, Therese felt blown over by a current of surprise and confusion. Through the tumult, she could manage nothing but a brusque, “N-no.”

She looked around wildly. Dannie’s face was slack, stunned. He had a furious blush blooming on his cheeks as the situation dawned on him. He moved his gaze to the floor, staring hard at the patterns there. 

In the end, it was Carol who stepped in. Carol, with all her social maneuvering covering the hard line of her mouth, the way she quietly, almost secretly, ground the pads of her pointer finger into the joint of her thumb, the way her back had straightened, her chin upturned, her eyes gone steely—Carol turned to Diane and said, coldly, “ _That_ is not her husband.”

It was, perhaps, not the kindest correction. Beside her, Therese could see Dannie’s ears adopting the redness of his face. She wondered briefly whether he would have corrected her himself, were Carol not there. Or would they play through the charade of it—Therese too stunned to say anything, Dannie too willing to live the fiction. 

Diane’s eyes swept over the three of them, her eyebrows raised in interest. “Ah. I see.”

…

 

“Well, that was _some_ party,” Abby sighed from her place slung over the couch. Therese reentered the living room after having gathered up glasses and taken them to the kitchen. Carol was silently walking about the space, shifting furniture back into place, drawing the curtains, focusing entirely on anything at all besides the other women in the room.  
Abby watched her busying herself. “You know I met this woman from the Upper East Side? I think she was someone’s date. Cute, though. Blonde. Sort of short…” Abby continued to speak, her eyes glued to Carol’s face. Was she waiting for a response? 

“...I don’t know whether or not she really liked him. He had such a small nose. I can’t imagine ever going for someone with a small nose, but that is just a personal taste, I suppose—“

Carol cut across her description, irritably, “Abby, I do not—just, please… stop.” She held her hands out in front of her, palms wide, fingers spread, tendons taught. “For now. Please.” She sat on the couch next to Abby—her body collapsing into the cushions like all the air had been released from her body. She leaned her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. She let out a long breath. “God, I’m tired,” she said finally.

Therese’s eyes lingered over Carol on the couch. Carol in her home, on her couch. Carol on her mind. The party had gone. And, anyway, it had gone off well- _enough_. The guests seemed pleased to see the new apartment, duly charmed by its magnetic host, and sated by the drinks and h’ordeuvres offered. The conversation had flowed, drinks had been filled and filled again, and smiles kept each other company. All said and done, the party was a success. It did what Carol had wanted it to do, surely. It had informed all those present that she was a force undefeated, a woman unshaken. But, that was just all surface-level social practice, wasn’t it? 

The end of the party had been the problem. Diane’s questionable “I see” had sent shivers running down Therese’s back and goosebumps raised about her arms. It was such a small phrase, such a simple little utterance. A little thing. So foolish and so dangerous. 

Not that Diane was going to call up McCarthy or anything. That wasn’t really a concern, not really the problem. It was more the risk of having someone _know_ at all. Therese knew that Carol, for all her bravado eked from Abby, she wanted their life to be private. To be largely secret. Not out of shame, of course. Just… it was easier this way. Safer. People wouldn’t understand— _didn’t_ understand. They thought it was a condition. _Homosexuality_ : A perversion of unhealthy attention toward the same sex. Perhaps contagious, perhaps not. But most definitely weird. Unusual. Unsafe. It was just better to be quiet, to keep their heads down, avoid untoward questions, and carry on with their private, quiet lives.  
But, then, what to do when word got out, got admitted. When that thing that everyone oh-so-carefully did not say became said, even if indirectly? Even if only slightly?

Therese ran her thumb over a pleat in the dress. She really ought to change before sitting down or the dress would wrinkle. She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking. 

On the couch, Carol swung her head a little to the side to better see her. She held Therese’s eyes for a moment before that small smile appeared. That smile she loved so much…

Carol had been annoyed after that encounter with Diane. Though, of course, not much of it had to do with Diane as much as Dannie. Therese gnawed more forcefully on her cheek until she felt the skin give way and tasted a faint edge of iron. Carol jealous. What an odd thing—and what a reassuring thing at once. Therese didn’t particularly need Dannie and Carol to get along. They were such different creatures and each brought out such a different side of her. She would hardly know what to do with herself were she to spend time with both at once. Then again, she doubted she would need to do anything. Carol would spend the time talking to Dannie, attending to his conversational nature. Therese would likely sit there, quiet as ever—

“Therese, come here?” Carol spoke softly, her low rumble lilting through space like a baritone lullaby. Therese flowed along its current, swimming and floating and folding in beside Carol. 

Carol’s arm encircled her and held her—tighter than usual. Her hands curled and curled and curled in a language of something Therese could not decipher. What was the language of Carol’s arms, of Carol’s embrace? Somedays, she seemed to speak it. Not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to think that running into Therese at this party was what finally pushed Diane Arbus to pick up her own camera and take pictures of all manner of people. At this particular time in 1953, though, she'd have yet to do so.


	7. Red Like Carol Was Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of a dream, a memory, and a touch.

Therese was standing in Carol’s living room—how had she gotten here? Wasn’t it night? Weren’t they sleeping? She was still in her nightgown—it billowed around her calves though there was no discernable wind to be felt. But, no. There was Carol sitting at the dining room table, eating from a bowl—creamed spinach, it looked. Her movements were slow, as if sifted through syrup. The journey of the spoon from the bowl up to her mouth seemed to take ages. Therese opened her mouth and tried to call out to her. Nothing came out. 

What was this? This chiming ring pervading the air? It seemed to sing. Space itself seemed to hum. The room was too bright, the cream walls blaring outward, projecting light and sound and slowness.

Therese turned her head to the left. What is this, now? A full-length mirror—easily a foot taller than herself—stood upright beside her. Had that always been there? Her throat felt dry, itchy. She looked into the mirror—Looked at the flat vision of herself reflected back at her. She was such a wane figure—her large eyes, her small mouth. Her flat brows. She felt like a husk. How empty were her eyes. And, why? 

Therese stepped closer to the mirror. The woman in front of her was like a puzzle. And uncanny maze of questions and perplexing disjunctions. It was her. This was obvious from some innate certainty she felt in her bones. But, there was something else. Something… there. Her fingers drifted over the collar of her nightgown, grazing buttons and the hem of the neckline. What was it? She unbuttoned one, two, three buttons. Her skin beneath the gown was likewise familiar and not. Her skin seemed to reflect and pulse under the force of the cream walls, the cream energy, the cream vibrations of the room. The line of her sternum was so… wrong. Something was wrong. 

She ran the pads of her fingers over her collarbone, the dip between, and, below, the swell of bone. She tapped lightly. Something there, something there. Something wrong there. 

She turned her head lightly to look behind her. Carol was gone. She looked forward, back at the mirror. No, Carol was here. Was sitting at the couch. She was draped along its curves—curves which echoed her own—her legs crossed, her left arm lain out on the back of it. Her finger traced the cream seams. She was staring out, her eyes running through Therese as if the younger woman were not there.  
Something there. Something not there. Something wrong. 

Therese turned back to the mirror, returned her hands to her chest. Her breasts seemed to be on the verge of falling—as if they were not fully attached, couldn’t be fully attached. Not there anyway. Her finger tipped curled against her skin, digging into cream under cream after cream. 

Her fingers pressed onward, sinking, dipping, into her skin. Pulling skin like taffy back. She was rubber. She was gelatinous and stretching and pulling. A sheet of skin held in her hands, and she pulled.

She pulled and pulled and pulled and wrenched and tugged. And gasped. 

She gasped out breath at the sight of her flayed self because it was so very red. Red, red, so, so, _red_. Red like Carol was red.  
Her ribcage glistened under the cream light in the cream air. 

Carol sighed heavily from the couch and inspected the fingernails on her right hand. 

Therese looked down at herself—her open, exposed self. Like a cabinet holding its own doors wide open. What was hidden within? What here is right? What was missing? She should be horrified, shouldn’t she? She could see her lungs inflate and deflate, her heart—swaddled and sheathed—pumping blood which seeped, quiet as could be, down her body, onto the floor. Little red, red shadow. 

Then there it was. That something fluttering. That little ball of fuzzy light running right there along her bones. What was it? Her soul? Her breath? Her fingers rustled, dug, searched for it. Along the top edge of her right lung, she caught it. It thrummed. It shivered. 

She pulled it from her chest, held it up closer to her eyes. White, white light. Fuzzy light. She glanced up at herself holding this little thing in the mirror, but her mirror-self was already turned away. Was looking at Carol, was holding the ball up for Carol, offering it to Carol—Carol who simply stared and smiled and began to laugh—

**…**

 

Her eyes shot open, her chest heaved her out of bed, her body was awash in a sheen of sweat. Therese felt her heart cantering, double-time. Her breath matched the pace of it. She peeled back the sheet, revealing the thin nightgown below. To her left, Carol was deep asleep, her hands cradling one another gently. Therese slid her legs over the mattress and onto the floor. The hardwood greeted the bare balls of her feet—cold and unrelenting. Something solid and sure. She let out a heavy breath. Her heartrate still fluttered, still raced ahead of her as she lifted herself onto those feet, on that wood—but, at least she could feel the floor. 

She crept out of the room, grabbing her robe on the way out. It was a small thing—blue, terrycloth. Nothing extravagant. Carol had wanted to buy her another, but, for once in a great many whiles, Therese had been able to talk her down. It worked just fine for what it was.

The door opened to the cream living room. Even as the walls had returned to their calm, plain normalcy, Therese felt her stomach lurch at the sight of them. A shudder rushed up her back, over her shoulders, and shook her suddenly. 

She padded through the living room. What to do at—she checked the nearby table clock—four in the morning? She loitered beside the couch, the armchair, the dining room doorway. Her ambling walk about the room calmed her. She could feel her chest become less tense, her muscles release just slightly. The sheen of sweat on her body caught the air and chilled her as it dried. Therese pulled her robe tighter around her, digging her fingers into the terrycloth seams. 

She eyed the coffee table, the back wall, the bookshelf, tracing the contents of each—the bookshelf! Her eyes landed on a gray box tucked onto a lower shelf. One of Therese’s conciliatory contributions to the space to appease Carol. Carol wanted her to move in, and, therefore, Carol wanted her to bring things of hers to decorate and populate the sparse cream. 

Therese pulled the box from the shelf and carried it to the couch. It was roughly the size of a dictionary—a simple thing, but it did the trick. She sat, placing the box on her lap, running her fingers over the edges of the box lid before curling around and lifting it off.

Inside were stacks and stacks of photographs—glossy, little imprints of light. Her middle fingers ran the length of the sides of the box before diving in. A man pulling his coat from a hook in a diner. An umbrella leaning on a sidewalk, dappled with rainwater and left to dry. A towering brick building, its windows revealing cloudy skies in seamless reflection. And, Carol. Carol asleep in bed. Carol crowned in a halo of light hair, upon white sheets, her skin, in places, pooling shadows. The photograph made Therese pause. 

She remembered the night she took it—the quietness of that moment with Carol laying so contentedly, so still. So beautiful. Therese had ventured to leave the bed to fetch her camera. As she did, Carol had shifted. Therese remembered her breath catching, her heart skipping, her muscles clenching and freezing. How foolish she had felt, how worried. What would Carol have thought, to wake to Therese and her camera? But, Carol had turned—and she turned onto her back, opening herself to Therese. It was a sight to behold, indeed. The image had practically leapt into Therese’s lens, her fingers moving of their own accord to capture the shot. She knew she hardly needed it, in a way. There weren’t forces on earth that could steal such an image from her memories.

She traced the border of the photo. She needed photos for a portfolio, for submissions to the Tanager Gallery’s New Photographer’s showcase. Dannie had connected her to Joseph Groell, the man in charge of accepting the submissions. He’d asked for a selection—something to represent her eye, he’d said. 

She gazed down at the way the light curved over the sleeping Carol’s cheek in the photograph. She shouldn’t use this one—she couldn’t. Could she? It was so personal. Intimate. One could hardly look down at the woman in the photo without recognizing the camera’s gaze. It was the look, the attention, the care, and the focus of a lover. What would Carol think? Oh, god. What would she think? No, it probably wouldn’t do. Perhaps they wouldn’t even like it, wouldn’t want to show that one. Or perhaps they would. It was probably best not to risk it…

But… as she lifted the photograph from its place on the pile to set it aside, to keep it hidden, Therese felt her heart flutter madly, her pulse quicken, and her hand tilt—just enough, just so as to drop the picture instead amongst those for the portfolio. Her mind reeled. She felt she should be panting or gasping—some something to mark the weight of the act. Surely, it was an act of weight. She glanced at the photograph, now lying so innocently on the portfolio stack. Just a photo. It was only a picture—only a very good picture, which she had taken. Which showcased her eye, her attention, her photographic style. Only a picture. And a picture would be harmless. Surely.

She pursed her lips for a moment before forcing her attention back to the box to select a few more photos. 

**…**

 

Therese opened the door to Carol’s bedroom as silently as the hinges would allow. Her head entered the space before her body, her form curling around the door. The room was warmer—insulated so with the heat of their bodies, the smallness of the space. She tugged at the belt of her robe, releasing the fabric and feeling it slide down the length of her arms. She could leave it on the floor. Carol would be cross. She would mention it, of course. Over breakfast or, if it irritated her even moreso, she would wait until dinner. No matter, no matter. 

Therese slipped into the bed, careful to balance her weight as if she were stepping onto cracking ice—first one leg, pause. Then the next, pause. All the care in the world was for nothing. Carol stirred, turning her body toward the movement, releasing a quiet, almost imperceptible, murmur of questioning. Her eyes fluttered open. 

Therese felt her body ignite in nervous awareness—she could feel the downy lint coating the threads of the sheets, could feel the coolness of the underside of her pillow as she slid her hand underneath, could see the glint of light running down a curl in Carol’s hair from a streetlight outside. She could see Carol, her sleep-ridden face rumpled in slight worry. Could hear her voice crackle and spark as it ushered out a low, “Why are you—? Where did you go?”

“I had a dream. It’s nothing,” she murmured back. Relaxing into the bed, she took in Carol. Carol’s creased brows, Carol watching her. The silence between them was long and smooth and quivering.

“You know I love you?” It was barely a whisper. So thin. Threadbare, almost. Therese had felt the words trickle over her tongue, but hardly recognized them as her own.

The worry fell from Carol’s features. A smile played across her mouth. “Yes,” Her voice was like gravel or pebbles or storm clouds or—“Sweet girl,” she whispered. She moved to look down again.

Therese brought her right hand up to cup Carol’s chin. To catch her as she fell. To hold her face up. She held her eyes; she breathed in the air Carol breathed out; she moved her face closer, leaning her forehead in to touch Carol’s. They laid like that for some time that felt like a little stretch of forever.

Carol then stirred. Therese felt her rise up, her face dip briefly to graze a kiss on Therese’s palm. Her shoulders, her neck, her wrists rose and seemed to swirl around Therese. She felt herself being led and turned by hand. Pulled toward Carol and everything Carol. 

Carol’s hand upon the back of her neck like a support beam. Carol’s face dipping into the crook of her neck and her shoulder. Carol’s fingers drawing rivers, deltas, oceans upon her skin. So, so close to her lips was Carol’s neck, Carol’s shoulder. Therese turned her head toward the perfumed skin—oh, to bite there. To take in Carol. So easily—how easily?—could one break the skin with their teeth. She wanted to. And, also, she didn’t want to. It was more carnal curiosity, more that ache in her chest and her stomach that needed to have Carol, consume Carol. She ran her tongue over the tips of her teeth even as her head was tossed back, thrown in a volley of ecstatic nerves. She let out a huff of air, brought her head back down, and kissed Carol’s neck—softly, gently, carnally. 

But, suddenly undone: Traces of fireworks erupted along Therese’s arms, her side, her legs. She hummed through closed lips because so much of her felt like it was spilling out, like the particles of her body had begun to shake and tremble—too electric, too vibrant. She closed her eyes for looking at Carol in that moment would surely turn her blind. She gasped in air because even the tenuous thread of breathe afforded her some kind of tether, some kind of anchor, to the world. She was as a violin unstrung, a harp plucked and ringing and resonating with the room, the bed, the woman, the world itself. Form itself seemed to splinter—everything was light, was movement; everything was a bright, bright red—

Four nails dug lightly into the back of her neck, and she was brought back to the room. Her eyes burst open; Carol’s head was tilted down, her mouth open, breath coursing, flowing. She could make out only the faintest details of her face from behind a curtain of her blonde hair—so delicate in its barest waves, so pale. Like starlight pulled out in sheets—pulled like taffy in long stretches that reached farther and farther. Her hair looked so soft— _how_? How and how and how could she be here? As Carol looked up at her, her hair parted slightly. Her face was halved by that curtain of starlight. Therese could not speak. Was there anything so magnificent, so marvelous, so _startling_ as she?


	8. No Easy Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just—” Her mouth felt ill-equipped to the task of questioning, explaining, speaking about this. Her eyes scanned the air in front of her as if the answers she was looking for were hidden, nestled into the dust motes floating about. No such luck. She took in a deep breath. “I don’t even know how to explain.”

Dannie glanced back at Therese as they exited the _Times_ building, his brows furrowed and his mouth drawn in a hard line. Worried. He was worried about her. She hadn’t been talking—nothing much new there, but she knew that she must look stuck in her head. Therese scoured her mind for something to say, something inane to bring up so that he would stop looking at her that way. So they could do their normal dance of casual conversation and suspended silence. 

They walked to their preferred bench and took out their lunches. The street was busier that day. People had places to be, things to see. Cars sped by in a constant tide of sputtering engines and staccato horns. Down the street, a vendor shouted offers of food at passersby. The sky was a dull gray, speckled with darker clouds as if teasing rain. It painted the street an eerie almost-dusk despite its being around noon. Like time folded over. Therese pulled the wax paper package from her tin, but she didn’t unwrap the sandwich. Just sat there, staring at the paper folded over and over itself. 

“Therese,” Dannie said finally. Short, quick, riddled with concern. She looked up at him. She must have been looking at the paper for too long. “What is going on with you?”

Therese opened her mouth. What to say, how to explain, when you weren’t sure what the problem even was… “Nothing,” she mustered a small smile. “I’m fine. I’m just tired. I’ve got a lot on my mind. That’s all.”

Dannie’s brows remained drawn; his eyes stayed trained on her face. He let the silence sit for a few moments before asking quietly, “Is this about the party? Because, Therese, I swear I was going to tell her that—“

“It’s not you,” Therese broke in. Too sharply. Too energetically. Her hands had leapt out with her voice, pushing out against the air. To hold the world at bay—She was suddenly so very exhausted. Her shoulders slumped down. She sighed. “It’s not about you,” she repeated, more quietly this time. 

Dannie continued to watch her. After what felt like hours, he turned to his bag, reached inside, and pulled out two bottles of Coca-Cola. Opening both, he offered one to Therese. 

She took it with a smile, wrapping the fingers of each hand around its circumference. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dannie asked, looking at the bottle in his hands. She didn’t respond. Yes, no. Of _course_. And, also not at all, impossible, never. He turned to squint at Therese. “It’s about her, right?”

Therese looked at Dannie. He was smiling, lightly. “I know, you know,” He looked back down at his bottle. “I mean, I get it. You didn’t say exactly, but I put two and two together.” He chuckled and tapped his temple. “They should give me some kinda degree, right?” 

Therese tried to smile, but she only managed a grimace. She took a swig of the soda. Well, shit. Now what?

“You know,” Dannie began again. He swung his leg a little, knocking his foot against hers. Just a little. Just enough to pull her attention back. “I may not be some sort of… I don’t know, Casanova, but I know one or two things about one or two things.” He smiled at her again. So warm, so kind. Sweet, simple Dannie. He shrugged at her and took a drink. “Might help.”

Might indeed. Therese felt herself sigh out some of her tension. Talking to someone about this might just be the ticket. She hadn’t spoken to anyone. Not even Carol. Not really, anyway. But… how could that be possible? She ran down the list of people she knew, but not one of them was a confidant. Speaking to someone about… this—it seemed so taboo. Like it was fine to live it, but to put her feelings into fully-formed words would somehow escape her control. The words would float away from her and she would be left, open. 

So, talking. Like a kind of leaning, supporting. Might help indeed.

“I just—” Her mouth felt ill-equipped to the task of questioning, explaining, speaking about this. Her eyes scanned the air in front of her as if the answers she was looking for were hidden, nestled into the dust motes floating about. No such luck. She took in a deep breath. “I don’t even know how to explain.” 

Dannie nodded slowly. “Well, how did you meet?” He was trying to help her. Nudging her forward. Trying to sounds so aloof and carefree. 

Therese looked at him finally. “Doesn’t this bother you? You don’t think it’s… weird? Wrong?”

Dannie’s eyebrows quirked. “Well, sure. It’s not the story you see in the pictures. Sure. But, you’re still two people, right? Just people. You like things. She likes things.” The corners of his mouth slid upwards. He began to lazily wave a hand from side to side, like he was checking off items from a list. “You discuss. Resonances, commonalities, affinities. Love… happens. It’s just people being… people.” He was grinning now, coaxing a small smile out of Therese. He looked down for a moment at his balled-up lunch sack, his bottle of coke. “Look, Therese. I don’t know what is going on with you two… Maybe it’s not my business. Maybe, whatever.” He looked back up at her. “But I have seen you two. I’ve seen _you_. I see when you’re happy, and…” Dannie shook his head slowly, “God, you know, Therese. You look so happy sometimes. And I can guess that that’s because of her.”

Therese blinked. She didn’t know what he wanted her to say or do or think—

“But then, sometimes… you don’t. Look happy, I mean. Sometimes you have this look in your eyes,” He shook his head again and turned to watch a couple across the street walking slowly, arm in arm. They were laughing, beaming. “I don’t know what is going on with you two,” He said again. “But I know that whatever else we are or… or aren’t, I am your friend. I’m listening. I may not get it all,” he chuckled to himself, “but I’m here.”

Therese felt a dry sting run along the waterline of her eyes, her nose, her cheeks felt stretched thin. She pursed her lips. “I don’t know if I… know myself. With her. It’s like I just change so fast. So much. And, I don’t even…. I don’t even know... me. Or, or what I want.” She laughed emptily, a hollow airy sound. How strange it was to speak these things aloud. “I-I thought that this time I could just hold myself together. But, I can’t. It’s like I can’t stay _me_ when I am with her. Or I don’t even know who I am…” Therese took a deep breath. Her throat felt so tight. Like Carol’s hand was around it, gripping. “That _can’t_ be right,” She looked up at Dannie, “Can it? I mean, it _must_ be wrong.”

Dannie tilted his head to the side. He hummed a little, thoughtfully. “But, then again, we always do. Change. Right? People change or grow or… move. And other people change us. Loving people… it changes things. _Real things._ About us. Like our molecules shift or something—metaphorically speaking,” he qualified with a small smile. A small smile, which spoke volumes to Therese because she knew he wasn’t speaking altogether abstractly. She let her eyes drift downward, to the lines on the sidewalk—such clear, straight lines running to where they were supposed to run. “But, you know, maybe that isn’t such a bad thing sometimes.” Dannie ducked his head to catch Therese’s eyes. “Because there is a difference between being an independent person, being _someone_ , and holding yourself… separate or something. Holding yourself away from another person. Right? There has to be. If people change us. All the time, I mean. Not just in love. And if that change is a part of living…” He paused. His brow furrowed. He suddenly looked very, very serious. More serious than his usual carefree intensity with which Therese was so familiar. No, this was a different intensity. “Because maybe… Maybe if you love them, and you’re changing, it _is_ still you. You changing you. A person can’t just say a magic word or something and make you love them, make you change. Any more than you can make someone love you back.” He looked back down to the ground, smiling that same small smile. “It just doesn’t work that way.” 

Therese watched him for a moment. Just sitting there. She wondered whether this move, this helping wasn’t for the both of them. But, then again. Was it helping? Or was it wallowing? Where was the line between those things?

Because what… what could she do? _Talk to her?_ The little voice in the back of her mind chided her. But, how terrifying. How… how impossible. How did one speak to smoke? How did one touch starlight?

“Don’t you think she’s changed… for you?”

The question stopped her in her tracks. Therese looked up at Dannie. He was still leaned over slightly, but his face was turned toward her. His brows lifted. Like it was obvious. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like, how could she not know?

“I—” She didn’t know what to say. Of course. Of course, of course, of course. Yes. She had. And yet, it was such a surprise to think of it. And, yet. No surprise at all. Of course she hadn’t noticed, hadn’t concretely, _really_ thought about it. She was always on the edge, on the cusp of things. Peering from the outside in. The distance was a frustrating ache, an itch, even—Was that why she always said “yes”? Because she couldn’t feel the pain that would produce the “no”?—She could see those around her, was aware of her own body moving through the space like she was watching a play. And, in other ways, she felt and felt and felt until her skin _felt_ like it would slough off, until her mind _felt_ like it was dizzy with euphoria, flaming with excess. And yet. Or, maybe. Was this all life had to offer her? This life painted in pastels when she knew, she could see the vibrant chromatics before her? She had the sneaking suspicion that life itself had lied to her, had been lying to her for quite some time now.  
But Carol. What did Carol feel? Did Carol know who she was? Did Carol feel so unmoored? So unsure? The thought left her feeling scooped out. 

She squeezed her hands into little balls, surprising herself to hear a rustle and crack of wax paper as she did so. She hadn’t realized she’d picked up the bundle. Her thumb, pressed into the wax paper, had made a full divot into the bread of the sandwich within. A change. She traced its shape. Nearby, a dog made itself known in three sharp barks.

**…**

 

The journey home from work was a quiet one. She had a lot to think about. Her last few hours of work had been a blur, her mind overtaken by plans for the evening. She had decided that they would talk. Once five o’clock came about, her stomach was aflutter with a mixture of butterflies and undiluted panic. She headed come with her mind spinning through cycles of scenarios, playing out the possible iterations of the conversation-to-be over and again—all as she walked out to the curb, opened the door of the cab she’d hailed, and stepped inside. Settling her purse beside her, she recited the address to the driver. They would have dinner, sit down, and discuss… things. Therese swallowed hard. Oh god. They hadn’t really ever just talked. Not like that. Not _about_ that. Not in that serious way before. It was always about other things. Indirect things. The injunction, the apartment, the divorce, Richard. They drew closer to each other by outlining the borders of their lives. Like drawing the shadows around a shape. They’d never just… talked about them. Why was that?

She picked up her bag as the cab slowed to a stop by Carol’s apartment. She reached into her purse, grabbing a handful of bills to pay the man before opening the door and exiting the vehicle. She faced the steps up to the apartment, and took three deep breaths. How could a building incite such comfort and such anxiety, all at once? She shifted her jacket over her shoulders and began to walk up the steps to the door, key in hand. Regardless of why they’d never talked, they would tonight. Therese would make it happen. 

When she’d reached the inside landing, she turned her key in the lock. It went in so smoothly, the door opened silently—not at all like her own apartment. Hers stuck something awful. The key would jam so badly sometimes that she would have to brace her foot against the wall to wrench it out. And, of late, the hinges had developed an irritating shriek as they swung open. What a different world. 

The first thing she noticed as she entered the apartment was the large brown coat hanging just inside the door. A strange coat. Not Carol’s, not Abby’s. Certainly not hers.

Then came the low murmur of voices from the kitchen. Carol’s rumble. A man’s harsher tone, darker and edged with a whisper. A short and bright peal of laughter. 

She turned toward the sound, but didn’t walk there. Not yet. The voices continued their course, unbothered. Perhaps they hadn’t heard her come in. She put her purse on the couch, eased out of her jacket. She wasn’t altogether sure why she was trying so hard to remain invisible, but as she laid the jacket over the arm of the couch, she knew that she wanted to hold onto that anonymity for a few seconds more. She stepped lightly toward the kitchen doorway, pausing at an end table just outside. From this point, the voices gained more distinction.

“—Well, you certainly do seem to be… getting on.” Therese’s spine turned to ice. She knew that voice like she knew her nightmares. But of course it was him. Harge. Who else? She stood frozen in the spot. What to do? She couldn’t get to the bedroom—it would require passing by the kitchen on her way across the room. And the dining room, too. That was out. There was a connecting doorway to the kitchen there, too. She could leave. Could wait across the street or something until he left—how foolish, how cowardly, how stupid, how—

The voices grew louder. They were coming out. With all the mental heft she could muster, Therese wrenched her feet, pushed them to move. 

She had only just turned away from the doorway, only just begun to walk toward the couch when she heard the surprised voice of Carol reach across the space and pull her attention back toward her. 

“ _Oh_.” 

Carol was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her face a written definition of shock. She rested her hands on the shoulders of a little girl—Rindy—standing before her. Rindy shifted her attention from figure to figure, trying so hard to solve the puzzle of the waves of tension flowing about the room. She looked up at her mother’s face, over at her father, back at Therese. Carol’s right hand clutched at the girl’s shoulder, her tendons outlined starkly along the top of her hand. Her mouth hung open. Therese took in all of this so quickly, felt it all so slowly.

And then there was Harge. The hulking man was a sheet of white. His mouth was stretched in a thin line, which curved downward—so ugly. So shocked. His brows drew together, his eyes squinting. Disgusted. He looked disgusted. And livid. And… confused.

Suddenly things were moving very, very fast.

“Harge,” Carol said—her voice filled with warning, tempered and careful.

“Goddammit.” He whispered in return.

Therese wanted to be anywhere else. _Anywhere else._

“I brought Rindy here,” Harge said. His voice was still low. Still even—it broiled.

Carol stepped out from behind Rindy, eliciting a stern “Momma!” of protest from her daughter. “Harge, it’s not—”

“ _Goddammit, Carol_. I brought _Rindy_ here!” His anger had peaked. His dangerous, even tone rose and swelled and spilled over. He turned, reeling at Carol. “I thought you stopped all this nonsense. You’re living here playing house with this _child_?”

Therese flinched. She stepped backwards, instinctively. Carol’s eyes flicked over to hers, begging her as if to say, _wait, wait, I’ll fix this_. She straightened herself, rising to meet his tide. Her chin strong, her shoulders set.

“ _Harge_ , I don’t think it is any concern of yours how I live my… my life anymore.”

“Like _hell_ it isn’t when I bring my _daughter_ over here to this place.” He swung his head around, glaring at each and everything in the room, as if seeing it all for the first time, as if recognizing some hidden perversity in the shape of the armchairs and the hang of the drapes. “God, Carol. I didn’t think you would become a nun, but I sure as hell thought you would at least have the decency to keep _this_ part of you to hotels or—or something else. But, no,” he sneered at her. “You acting like this… like this is some kind of _life_ ,” he spat out the word like it was coated in poison or bile, “It’s a _joke_.” He curled his lip and glanced at Therese. Dripping disdain, disbelief. “Acting like you’re not even ashamed,” he added in a low mutter.

Carol’s eyes flashed. “I’m _not_ ashamed.” Even as she said it, her voice shook ever-so-slightly.

Harge turned to look at her. “ _Bull_ shit.”

The room was so still and fragile, and standing there, so quietly, so obviously was like walking across a frozen lake covered in spidery cracks. At any moment, she was sure she would drown or freeze or some combination of the two. All the while, the clock on the wall ticked—seemingly more loudly than it had ever ticked. Therese became aware of the goosebumps that had arisen all over her skin, noticed for the first time that she was trembling.

Carol looked like she had been doused with cold water. “ _Get out_ ,” she commanded, her voice barely audible. 

Harge stared at her for a beat longer, his face still contorted in rage. With a huff, he grabbed Rindy by the arm, ignoring her whine of protest, and pulled her to the door. He did not bother to stop and don his coat. He merely threw it over his arm, and, turning back, muttered, “I can see this was a mistake,” and left. The door slammed shut behind him. 

Therese and Carol stared at it. In the hallway, they could hear the peals of Rindy crying receding down the stairs. Carol stumbled over to an armchair and collapsed in it. 

And she just sat there, breathing. Therese hardly knew what to do or what to say. She hardly knew what to think. She sat on the armrest of the couch, unsure that her legs could hold her up for much longer. She looked down at her legs, then her hands. She felt… useless. She should have _said_ something. She should have been able to _do_ something. _Like what?_ some part of her asked in return. Anything. Something. _Something_.

She heard a sniff and looked up to see Carol, her face flushed, her head held high. She was blinking at the ceiling, her eyes red-rimmed. Shaking her head slightly, she let out a dry laugh. “My god,” she whispered. 

All the parts in Therese’s body hurt. Every one of them. Her chest ached like it was ripped open. She felt her eyes burn. She opened her mouth to say something, _anything,_ but closed it again. What did one say in such a situation? 

_Well, in a way, it is my fault,_ she thought to herself. She felt sweat break out along the sides of her face. Her throat was dry, aching. It was. If she hadn’t come when she did, Carol would have Rindy here. Everything would have been okay. At least for another day. She gasped out a breath, and leaned forward, catching herself with her hands on her knees before she fell. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she croaked out.  
Carol looked down at her. Her brows were furrowed, her eyes tensed against the pressure in her head. It was not a kind look. 

“I—I shouldn’t have… I should have known better or left when I heard—“

Carol cut her off. “Stop it. It’s not your fault.” Her voice was so cold. So empty. Clipped. She sounded so tired. 

“But, I didn’t even—”

“ _Stop_.” She was louder now. Anger lined her words, undercut their syllables. 

Therese’s mouth opened, gaping at the tone. “W—Why are you acting like this?” Her eyes were welling up. She rushed to bring the base of her hand up and wipe away the moisture there.

Carol reeled at her. This time, her anger was not only on the margins, was not held back. Instead it washed over Therese, sweeping her up, blowing her over. Carol’s voice was like venom. Her words serrated. “Like what?” She stood, headed over to the table where she kept her cigarette case before selecting and lighting one. “Pray tell, Therese,” she snapped the cigarette case shut, shooting a glare at the younger woman. “How am I acting? How am I _supposed_ to act?” She began to pace. 

This was not her Carol. This was a stranger. A caged animal gnashing her teeth, baring her claws.

Therese was stunned. She grasped for words, for answers, for that warm familiarity that usually encompassed this suddenly frigid space. “I—I don’t know. But not like… not like this. It’s like…” She didn’t know what it was like. Or what it _was_ that had made her the villain. Carol was acting as if she were some evil thing. Some mistake. Was that it? Was Therese now a mistake? She felt a sob escape her throat, her lips. “Do you even care? Do you care that you sound like this?” Carol turned her head, paused in her pacing. She looked at Therese with a blank expression, her eyes only slightly tensed. A dangerously calm smoothness. Therese could have screamed. Instead, her lips turned up in a sick smile as she very nearly whispered, “Do you even love me?”

Carol’s mouth dropped open. Her entire face seemed to sharpen and harden. She just watched Therese for a moment, her eyes wild. When she finally spoke, it was steely and measured. “Do I _love_ you? Do you _know_ what I have given up for you? To _be_ with you?”

“That’s not the same thing.” Therese heard herself as if from far away. She sounded so quiet. So timid. Why did she always sound so timid?

Carol rolled her head and her eyes. She sighed, took a drag from her cigarette. Resumed her pacing. Her free hand came to a rest in the crook of her other arm, her forefinger tapped incessantly on the skin there. She shook her head once, twice, three times. “Stop acting like a child.” 

_Oh._

Those five little words were so quick. So… stern. Dismissive, even. 

Brutal.

And they struck her—as hard and as painfully as any hand could have. In their cold carelessness and in their echo of Harge. _Harge_. What had he said? _Playing house with this child_. A child. 

Therese felt her whole body shaking. Her hands balled into fists as she got to her feet. No. That was it. Something cracked and shifted inside of her. A wellspring of boiling emotion surged within her. Her voice was louder than she had ever heard it. Harsher than she had ever imagined it could be. “ _No_. Don’t you _dare_. Don’t you dare _say_ that to me!”

“What else am I supposed to say, Therese? What else? What am I supposed to say to someone who will not talk to me, who will not tell me _anything_. Not what you're feeling, what you're thinking. I don't know any of it. Just how incredibly, horribly _sorry_ you are when everything in _my_ life is falling to shit.” She jabbed the air with her hand, loosening an ember from the tip of her cigarette. It fell onto the toe of her shoes, scorching the suede. “ _Shit_.” Carol whirled around, collapsing back into the armchair. She held her hands at either side of her face, barely touching it with her fingertips. Like a broken, half-formed visor. Therese watched her, noticed that her hands were shaking.

She couldn’t believe this was happening. She should stop talking. She should bite her tongue, temper her anger. Should make amends. But she remembered Carol, so many months ago, demanding of her, pleading with her: _Ask me things_. So, right then. Therese looked at the scorch mark just visible on Carol’s shoe. Stared at it. Willed it to anchor her as she opened her mouth and asked, “You want me to tell you how I feel?”

Carol sighed. She glanced at the ceiling again, blinking furiously. Her left hand pushed out, held out against Therese. As if trying to stopper her onslaught. As if to say, _not now, Therese._

But it had to be now. This could not wait.

“You want me to tell you how I really _feel_?” Therese repeated, more slowly this time. She stepped toward Carol.

Carol glared up her and hissed, “Yes. I want you to tell me things. Yes, I want you to share things with me, to share _you_ with me.” Her voice was rounder, hoarser. Gravel embedded in each word. “I can’t—” She choked out a dry laugh. It was a horrible, painful sound. “I can’t read your mind, Therese. I can’t. And, quite frankly I don’t know what the _hell_ is going on in there half the time.” Her voice cracked and fizzled, splintering the “half,” and barely forming the “time.” 

Therese watched the woman before her. She was suddenly so, so very tired. Her arms could have weighed a hundred pounds. Her head another fifty. Carol, too, looked tired. Tears had overwhelmed her eyelids and spilled down her cheeks in two smooth rivulets. And as the tears fell with gravity, her hand rose up, held before her face. Like she was hiding from something. _From me?_ Therese wondered.

What even were they doing there? What even were they fighting about? 

“How?” The sound came out raw, tripping over itself. Fractured, even. 

Carol did not answer for a moment. Therese opened her mouth to repeat herself again when she heard the older woman’s response. Barely a whisper. More of a plea. “What?”

Therese took in a breath, closed her eyes. “How am I supposed to talk to you when you won’t… let me? When you do that thing. That thing where you just freeze, and I… I don’t know _how_ to talk to you. I—I try. I say things sometimes. I say that I love you, but—” She opened her eyes to Carol, looking up at her from her crouched position. Her head had tilted a little to the right. Her eyes looked so sunken, so heavy. Therese shrugged helplessly at her. “I want to say more, but… I don’t know. I feel like you don’t really want that.” 

The phone on the end table across the couch pierced through their conversation. Therese and Carol jumped. Therese glanced at the receiver lying there, suddenly obtrusive on the table before returning her eyes to Carol. Carol, who sat there like all the energy in her body had been sapped from her. Like she was a hollow husk, a half thing. The phone rang and rang again. Neither of them moved from their positions—Therese watching Carol, Carol staring blankly at the floor. Only when silence had enveloped the space once more did Carol’s eyes rise slowly to meet Therese. Ashes from her cigarette drifted in a slow succession onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't know if you're as exhausted and emotionally destroyed reading that as I was writing it, but here we are. All I can say is that I'm coming to love our friend Dannie more and more, and I am starting a new chapter of the We Hate Harge Club. I can only assume other chapters exist elsewhere.


	9. A Thousand Memories of Carol's Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese and Carol attempt to mend their fences; Therese anticipates the approaching photography show.

Therese opened her eyes to a cream ceiling, detailed wainscoting, and an overwhelming sense of dread. 

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Oh hell.

The things she had said. The things Carol had said. The things they hadn’t…

She grasped a handful of the sheets her sleeping body had pushed and crumpled by her waist. Every piece of her body wanted to turn her head, to see… To see what? If she was still there? If she was awake and watching her? If she was still so cold?

Therese’s neck wouldn’t turn. A cold sweat ran over her shoulders. _Just move_ , she scolded herself. But if she didn’t move then maybe she could pretend things were okay, just for one more minute, five more minutes. 

Coward. She was a coward. Therese clenched her hand holding the fistful of cloth, grit her teeth until they hurt. And turned her head. Just slightly, to the right. 

There lay Carol, fast asleep. Rays of morning light, smooth as silk, streamed through the window and painted her shoulder, her hip. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed. Her eyes, still swollen from the night before, looked so weary. 

And yet she slept. 

Therese watched her, drank up the sight of her breathing and laying and living beside her. 

As she so often did, Carol was cradling one hand in the other—she slept like this when she kept to her own space, when it wasn’t Therese she was cradling. Usually, one hand lay so softly in the other, like it would pick up and swing forth at a moment’s notice. Today, her hands curled around each other, palms facing each other. Pressed together in protection, in prayer, in something. 

Dark circles pooled under Carol’s eyes. Had she slept at all last night? They had given up the evening, decided it was too late, too much, to continue with. They had been so, so tired. She remembered Carol looking up at her, Carol breathing out such a heavy, clouded breath, Carol saying “I can’t talk about this anymore. Not tonight. I just… I need to sleep. We—we need to sleep.” Not cold, not warm. Just… heavy. Though Therese had felt like fleeing to her own apartment—this was why she’d kept it, wasn’t it? Because who really knew with Carol how permanent all this would be?—she’d followed Carol into their room, into their bed. Silently. They had folded themselves into the sheets and turned away from one another to lay there, wide-awake, for the next few hours.

Therese blinked in the still space. The light from the morning seeped slowly into the room, subtly tinting the color of the air. Therese slid over the side of the bed as quietly as she could. It was so very surreal how familiar this felt, and yet also how entirely shifted things were. Touching her bare feet to the floor, she tried to flatten them there. To press the skin into the wood, to feel some semblance of a rooting.  
She sighed. Lifted herself. And crept from the cold, morning-dappled room.

 

**…**

Holding her camera lightly in her left hand, Therese slowly ran a cleaning cloth around its silver metal exterior. Not a scratch yet. She carried it in a case, day-in and day-out. When she wasn’t using it, of course. Wrapped in a blue silk scarf. Was it an odd thing? This meticulous practice of keeping a thing so used, so destined to eventually _look_ used, so pristine? It was the camera Carol had given her. Stowed away in a gift suitcase that turned out to be a gift catalyst. A camera from Carol—Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was… totemic. Or something. 

Once she’d cleaned the lens, donned the strap, and positioned herself, the camera all but disappeared. It became, in an odd sort of way, an extension of her body. Each time her finger met the metal and buttons and dials, her hand ceased to end; the camera ceased to begin—as if it were made to be there. Or as if she, her body, disappeared entirely. 

She wound the dial, readying the next section of film. She was leaning against the railing of a walkway, on the street beside Central Park. Leaning hard against the wrought iron as if it would protect her from the biting gusts of wind blowing around her. Across the way, she could see the people dotting the landscape—sitting on benches together or alone, sleeping in a hard-won nook, walking along, feeding birds, or biking down the path. They occupied their space and performed their actions with purpose. Or so it seemed. Like they were living in the thrumming and busy world while she merely stood outside, watching. She found she felt quite, quite alone in her ruminations. The whole scene reminded her of Richard in a strange way. He, too, was so mechanical, so prone to the going-about of things. And he dwelled in parks—didn’t he? He spent so many afternoons there. For walks and bike rides. They were romantic, he thought. As such, they were his land in a sort of way. She associated them with him. Perhaps that was why she stood across the street, a little removed. It would feel like something of an intrusion. Therese lifted her camera to her eye. 

Through the viewfinder, the world became a different one—something smaller, more exacting. Precise. And yet, entirely distant. It was a voyeuristic practice—the picture taking. She supposed so, anyway. Her shift to capture people had only made the work moreso. But through this seeing portal, this tiny window which pulled her so far away from the world until she was nothing but eyes and a finger to snatch some second of it—people made more sense. The world made more sense. Or, maybe that wasn’t quite right. Maybe it was that none of it _had_ to make sense. Not anymore. Not in a photograph. In pictures, things could just sit, petrified in light, evident unto themselves. 

She snapped a shot of an elderly woman, reaching down for a dropped notebook, her face shrouded in shadow. The eleven o’clock sunlight behind her crowned her head like a halo. But only just “like.” It was mundane and so very curious. What was she thinking, this woman, as she bent over? What was her life like? Therese sometimes felt that for the very briefest of moments, behind the viewfinder, through the lens, she could inhabit the subjects of her pictures. Just for the moment. Just imperfectly. She could feel passions and excitements that she struggled to articulate in her own skin. Could imagine them, anyway. 

She pulled the camera from her face, twisting the dial again. The woman turned back into a smaller, distant, human figure. Sat up. Looked to her left. 

_Well I have a friend who told me I should be more interested in humans._  
_And how is that going?_  
_Quite well, actually._  
_I’m glad._

The conversation rang through her head, clear as a bell. She held her camera down as she scouted the park’s edge for her next subject, clutched it closely to her chest. Quite well, indeed. Dannie’s suggestion had utterly shifted her work. But, of course. It was hardly Dannie who had piqued her interest enough to pull her eye. That honor belonged to Carol. 

Carol, the enigmatic. Carol, the frustrating, distant, proud, infuriating, and wonderful woman. She would always hold her interest because Therese knew she would never understand her. Not in the big ways, at least. 

In so many little ways, though… 

Because Therese knew how much salt Carol wanted on her eggs, how Carol took her coffee. She knew that Carol loved order and cleanliness but would dash off her shoes or her purse upon entering the apartment for dramatic effect. Just so she could turn, a twinkle in her eye, and wink a recognition of her mischief at Therese. She also knew that Carol would quietly return them to their proper place in her closet before the hour was up. And, even more, she knew the sound of Carol’s footsteps from the rhythm of their gait, had memorized the taxonomy of Carol’s smiles and the textures of her skin… She knew what places on her body made her rigid and which made her unspool. 

The big ways were a mystery. Would perhaps forever be a mystery. But there was just something about those little things, those little details that she knew like she knew her name which tethered her to that woman, that place. 

Therese held her camera to her eye again, following a young man and his friend walking up a path. The friend had his hand on the man’s arm, like he had said something especially wonderful, especially funny. Held it there a long while. Her finger came down on the button. Forever, now. She brought the camera down again and turned the dial once more. Two more shots left. 

Therese traced the pathway with her eyes, following it up a hill until it seemed to dissolve into the sky. So many people—just running and walking about. How odd to walk through Central Park. How perfectly, normally odd. All the people living their perfectly normally, odd lives. Marrying, having children. Buying houses. For all their wool coats, they had secrets. Perversities. Everyone did, didn’t they? But, then again, what really was a perversity? 

She returned her eye to the viewfinder. She circled the shutter button with her finger, flirted with pressing down, as a woman in a brilliant red coat crossed her sightline. Who was this woman, what would she tell Therese from within the lens? 

Therese felt herself pulled toward the woman as if her very form had reached through the glassworks, the mirrors, the light of the camera—reached out one long hand and wrenched Therese within. Her eyes traced her, followed her, wondered at her.

What was her favorite color? What foods did she hate? Where did she live? Who did she love?—and how and what kind? Therese squinted, focusing hard on the woman’s wool coat. On the turn and curl of her brown hair, the way her shell cap lay upon the crown of her head. She had a touch of lace attached to the cap—was she important? Rich? Married? She certainly looked the part: her gold earrings, her clean scarf. Her hair coiffed in the style of quiet money. Perhaps she worked in the government, or her husband did. Perhaps he had recently been downsized. Purged among his peers in the lavender scare... Perhaps.

She walked with her purse clutched to her side. Not obviously so. Not so that she appeared wholly nervous or anxious to be walking. Just enough to communicate to passersby that she had a good grip and strong hands. That she would fight anyone who might try to take it. And, her face… her _face_.

Her face was done up in a look of pure determinism. A kind of strength. Not a kind of happiness, though.  
Carol wore that look. So often and so rarely. She would set her chin, align her shoulders, and thrust forward into the world. And conquer. Such a fearsome woman… 

Therese very nearly pushed the button, very nearly took her. Only very nearly because, in the sudden sweep of things, the gesture seemed too intimate. Like a form of touching, of caressing. Why this woman? Why this figure? This stranger. Why… not? 

The waves of curiosity, which had so paralyzed her, so bound her to the woman in the red coat ebbed and faded. She blinked. The woman continued to walk through the viewfinder’s sightline, but also not at all. Suddenly she looked different somehow. No longer looked determined nor strong. She looked… busy. Set. Mechanical. She looked like every other passerby. 

Therese lowered the camera from her face. The world resumed its normal tempo, its normal tone. She frowned at the park and its people. Whatever glimmer of interest had pulled her here, had pushed her _here_ to take photos, had passed. Something in the form of things had shifted. She wrapped the camera in her cloth, stowed it in its carrying case, and headed down the street, hands in her pockets.

**…**

 

She decided to walk for a while. The day’s crisp breeze pushed back against her body like a necessary resistance. The sensation was… comforting. Something about the _struggle_ of it was comforting. She let her head wander to the right, then the left. Noticing the people peppering the streets. At odd moments, she tried to unfocus her eyes as she walked—to let the rush of people flow by her in a blur. To let herself be swept and carried. 

Back in focus, the shops lining the street took over her attention. Cooking stores. Department stores. Bookstores—she stopped walking. The bookstore beside her was small—a little parlor of a room behind a large glass window decorated with the painted words _The Dog’s Ear: Books and More_. The glass was spotted with handprints and dust marks, illuminated in the sunlight. Therese could hardly see into the building for the darkness of its interior. She paused for moment before turning and grabbing hold of the long wooden door handle. And pulled. 

It was a dark green space—green vinyl cushions covered tall-backed chairs and a small loveseat near the front of the shop, green glass shades crowned the hanging lamps, a green panes of glass covered the small tables that dotted the space. The walls were lined with thin, pine bookshelves running from the floor all the way to the ceiling. Therese could smell the fresh cut of the pine, wondered if they were new. A display on her left greeted her entrance into the small shop. Towers of books stacked and featured for their popularity. Further back, on a tabletop, sat a record player. Brassy trumpets lilted through the air, encouraging silence. Therese hesitated. What was she doing in here? But the small space pulled her in, inviting her so quietly to look around at its hidden treasures. 

An older woman sat behind a raised desk on her right, just inside the door. She offered Therese a wry smile before returning her attention to a notebook into which she scribbled. 

The shop seemed largely empty. Therese walked down the narrow length of the shop, glancing at the offerings on the shelves on either side. At a midpoint in the store, the space closed in with even more shelves running across the floor, interrupted only by a thin aisle way. The affect was a claustrophobic one. Therese felt like the room could tilt inward at any moment and swallow her whole. The thought sent shivers skipping over her shoulders. 

When she reached the back of the store, Therese drew closer to the shelves. Mysteries. Ghost stories. Horror—dime novels. She’d reached the pulp fiction section. She mused at the lurid art on the covers. People actually read this trash. Warrior princesses fighting off the Roman Empire. Alien invaders from Mars. Attack of the Killer Automobile. She very nearly laughed aloud. 

Her eyes drifted over the spines. They were ridiculous, but she could understand the appeal. As she pulled one or two from the shelf, the bright colors and fantastical imagery grabbed her eyes. The scenarios they depicted were hilarious. She picked up a book with a cloaked, shadowy figure lurking behind two barely-clothed warriors. _She had one desperate chance to defeat the barbarian horde—but none to escape._ Therese chuckled. Running her finger along the rough paper spines, scanning authors and titles, she continued to peruse.

She spotted a dark-colored book nestled on the shelf, and absent-mindedly ran a finger down the book’s headband. By Claire Morgan, it said. Therese frowned. Where had she heard that name before? As her muscles tensed to pull the book from the shelf, her eyes grazed over a wilder name three books to the left: Vin Packer. What a strange name. _Spring Fire_. The title sounded promising and dramatic. Therese left the Morgan, turning instead to _Spring Fire_. She pulled it from the shelf, revealing a dark cover of two women in bed wearing lingerie. Oh. What was this? Erotica? 

Therese felt the back of her neck prickle as she turned the book in her hands. The way they were leaning toward each other, the way the brunette seemed to swoon beside the stoic blonde…Therese was suddenly acutely aware of how quiet the room was. _A story once told in whispers now frankly, honestly written,_ read the subtitle. Therese looked back up at the bookshelf. Scanned the line of books with new eyes. She’d never read a lesbian book before. She hardly knew they existed. She’d known about girls like that, had a vague curiosity about them. But, even so. She’d never done any… research. And, anyway, anymore it seemed like no such thing would ever be published. Not with the censorship laws lurking around every corner. Anymore, you had to know someone or know how to find books like this. About sex or what have you. Or so she’d heard, anyway. 

She looked back down at the book in her hand. Well? Why not buy the thing. See what all the talk was about. She was curious enough, certainly. She traced the thin spine and bit down on the inside of her cheek. 

She stayed like that for a few minutes. Waiting. Testing herself. Weighing her guts against time, against that stupid, gnawing feeling of dread that bubbled up in her chest each time she glanced down at the novel. 

An absurd thought popped into her head: What would Richard say about _this_?

Her mouth fell open, and she gasped out a laugh. _God._ What was she doing worrying about _him_? But some small part of her still eyed the book with its lurid cover, its unabashed _flaunting_ … She knew exactly what Richard would say. Exactly how Richard would shake his head—so sadly, so _knowingly_ —as if, _of course_ , she was considering buying this book. _Of course_ she was. She’d finally taken the plunge to become one of _those_ girls. Therese frowned. 

_Those girls._ Her hand tightened on the book, swung around on her heel, and headed down the aisle.

**…**

 

Therese turned her key into the lock of Carol’s apartment. A thrum of nerves ran up her body as she turned the handle. The lights were on inside, and she opened the door to a warm smell of vanilla and bergamot. Carol was curled up in the far corner of the couch, frowning down at a book of her own.  
She glanced up as the door opened, closed the book, and smiled a small smile. “Hello.” 

It was a hesitant greeting. Careful. Formal, even. But not without warmth. Carol unfolded her legs from beneath her a little, straightened her back ever-so-slightly. 

Why did she always unfurl? 

Therese returned her smile and entered the space. “Hello. How are you?”

A little like a challenge, a little like a dare—but softer. Testing the waters, checking the temperatures. Carol nodded her head a little to the right, tossed her book onto the couch.

Therese paused. She didn’t know what to make of the gesture. Carol seemed relaxed. Seemed… well, perhaps not _happy_ but, at the very least she seemed warmer. Welcoming. Therese unwound the light scarf she’d draped around her neck, and hung her coat on the hooks by the door. Taking her brown paper bag, she approached the blonde woman. She glanced at the book as she sat down. _East of Eden._ She raised her eyebrows, glancing at Carol. 

“Pleasure reading?”

Carol sighed and shook her head. “Hardly.” She reached up a hand to sweep the curls framing her face off to the side. “I’m about five pages in, and I can barely keep my eyes open.” Halfway through moving the second side, she paused, smiled. “Janine swears by it, of course. She read some marvelous review in, I believe, _The New York Times_ about it, as I recall.” Carol’s eyes crinkled and her lips quirked as she glanced over at Therese. 

Therese smiled, shrugged. “Oh, don’t look at me. I just take pictures.” She stopped. Frowned. “Well, not even that. I take _coffee orders_. Or else I dictate, really.” She picked at the seam of her skirt.

“For now,” Carol added with a tone of finality. She sounded more confident than reassuring. Like reassurance was not even necessary. Therese wasn’t entirely sure whether such a tone was, in fact, more or less reassuring in effect.

“What have you got there?” Therese looked up. Carol nodded at the bag now laying on Therese’s lap. Oh. Oh god. 

Therese felt her skin growing warm. Carol’s eyebrows raised in interest. Oh god. _Oh god._

“Um,” How to explain? “I stopped by a bookstore on the way home, and I picked up something. I—“ Carol was watching her face with a look that bespoke simultaneous fascination and amusement. “It’s not—It’s just something dumb. Just a book, or, um… something.” Therese swallowed. 

“A book or… something,” Carol repeated in slower, measured tones. A smile ghosted the corners of her lips—not a warm welcoming smile. It was the smile of a jungle cat watching its prey limp away pathetically. Therese was suddenly very aware of the neckline of her shirt. 

Therese put her hands on top of the bag and tried very hard to look unbothered. She doubted it worked very well. Carol, however, turned away. She became very suddenly concerned with removing her earrings. Carefully, slowly. 

“So, what… manner of book might you have purchased?” She asked casually, watching the wall and pulling the large pearl earring out of its backing. Her eyes flicked over toward Therese following the last syllable.

Therese began to squirm. There really was nothing for it. Dignity be damned. She tossed the book-in-bag to the corner of the couch behind her, out of Carol’s reach. It would be bad enough to talk about it, let alone show Carol the cover art. “It’s some pulp thing. _Spring Fire_ , I think it’s called. It was a whim.” There. That was the truth. Mostly. She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.

Carol was frowning, her gaze had frozen on the far wall. She pulled her hand back slowly, holding her second earring, and turned toward Therese. Still frowning. “ _Spring Fire_.” She said, musing, “Why do I—” She paused. Opened her mouth slightly, her expression blank. Looked at Therese. 

Therese did her best to usher herself into a void. Her wishes were not granted. A smirk grew on the left side of Carol’s mouth. Why, oh, why did she buy that _damn_ book?

“Oh, _Therese_ ,” Carol said, before her head tilted forward in a deep, rumbling chuckle.  
Therese bit the inside of her cheek, ground her toes into the carpet. Her cheeks were _burning_. “I didn’t—”

“Hmm,” she continued to laugh to herself lightly. Then, still smiling, Carol tilted her head, “Have I not…” she paused, her mouth open like she was willing it to catch the right words. Her eyes flicked up, traced lines on the ceiling. “ _Done enough_. For you?” Her eyes fell back down to meet Therese’s own. 

Therese’s mouth fell open. She felt a spike of anger drive up through her, “God. Just _stop_.”

Carol quieted. Her smile faded somewhat, only to be replaced by a look that was perhaps thoughtful. Perhaps a little surprised. 

They sat like that a while: Carol watching Therese, Therese returning the gaze with drawn eyebrows. As moments past, the tightness on her forehead released. 

Carol murmured a quiet, “Hmm.” Then, “I’m sorry that I upset you.” 

Therese pushed back the swell of surprised rising through her mind as she studied Carol’s expression, the depth of her look, her words, her tone. 

Therese pursed her lips briefly, nodded twice. Said, “Me too.” She blinked, “I’m—I mean, I’m sorry I… you know, snapped. Like that.”

Carol continued to watch for a beat before looking down at her lap, moving some piece of lint or dust or nervousness from her skirt. 

“How was work?” Therese ventured to ask. Something, anything to keep them from descending back into silence. 

“Work was slow.” Carol answered. Her voice slid through the air like a tenoroon line, easing its way to Therese. “We have a client, Frank Harvers, who is _anything_ but agreeable. Really, the man is a just awful.” She hummed a little to herself, running down her list of thoughts. “And, Abby is being difficult as ever, of course.” Carol raised her eyebrows at Therese, tilted her head. “She’s, ah… she has a slightly more eccentric taste than I.”

Therese nodded. An understatement of the century.

“How is Abby? I haven’t seen her really since—“

“The party, yes.” Carol nodded. “Well, she’s met this woman.”

“Ah” Of course. What else? Therese shook her head and chuffed. Of course. Abby was something else. 

Carol smiled, chuckled slowly. She eased back a little on the couch, balancing her elbow on the top ridge of it, her head propped up against her knuckles. “Yes, well. We will see, won’t we? And who knows? Maybe this one will really turn things round.”

Therese let out a breathing laugh before noticing that Carol was not laughing with her. She was merely watching Therese, the corners of her mouth quirked the barest bit. 

She hummed again, and, in that low, storm cloud murmur said, “And why not? It seems to have worked wonder for me.”

Therese felt her face grow warm again. She looked down at her hands pressed flat against her skirt. She took a fold of the fabric between her fingertips and pressed, twisted. Oh. Goodness.

She heard Carol shifting beside her slightly. Therese followed the movement with her eyes. 

“And how is our young Mr. McElroy doing?” Carol asked after a moment. Her voice was still engaged, but somewhat less so. Like some of the warmer tones had bled out in the act of asking the question.

“Dannie is well actually.” Therese answered. Did Carol really want to know? She very much doubted it. Dannie was one subject that lost her Carol’s attention and interest very quickly. “He introduced me to that photographer at the Tanager Gallery. I don’t know if you remember him—the one I mentioned? New Photographer’s Showcase, they’re calling it.”

“Mhmm,” Carol would turn away soon. Would change the subject or move to perform some chore or task that could wait until later. Therese ran her bottom lip over her teeth. She pushed on.

“Well, I submitted a few photos to the show, and they’ve been accepted. So… that is that.” Therese finished lamely. Well, that was that. She’d told her. Now Carol could go off and read her book or— 

“When is the show?” Storm clouds. Thunder. Tenoroon.

“The end of June.” Therese felt a rush of… something—thrill? Nerves? Excitement?—run up her sternum at the thought. “But,” She glanced at Carol. “You—you don’t have to come if you’re busy or it’s any trouble. I know you have a lot on your plate with the business and furniture. And, anyway, they keep them up for a few weeks—“

“I’ll be there.” That tone of finality. Of confidence. This time, the tone was more than reassuring. It was warmth itself. Carol shook her head to usher a row of curls from her face. As she returned to her position leaning on her knuckles, she raised her eyebrows, smiled. _Smiled._

Therese felt her face turn up and shape and follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long it's taken me to update. I've been trying to acclimate a new kitten into my home, and it has been a *task*.


	10. A Little Feeling of Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gallery show is nearing; Therese begins a new job; Abby needs her friends.

Therese walked through the heavy wooden doors of the _Times_ building with an unusual sprint in her step. Today was a different day, a _first_ day of sorts. For today Therese was to start working in the photography department. Of course she’d loved her job, she’d been _thankful_ for her job. Even just fetching coffee and dictating letters was thrilling in the space so filled with busy people, urgent information, and hooking headlines slung to and fro. Still, there was always that edge of dissatisfaction. That something missing. Now, perhaps she would find it—whatever it was.

She’d received the call the day before: A promotion. The information had hardly taken root in her mind, hardly seemed real in the grand scheme of things pushing and pulling her life in so many directions. A promotion. She had gotten a _promotion_. She rounded the corner of the hall, reaching out a hand to skim her fingertips against the wood-paneled walls. She could feel her body willing her forward. Her feet seemed to tilt forward, her legs panged with the desire to rush her toward the end of the hall. But, she wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t hurry. She took deep breaths, slowed her gait. No need to rush. 

She neared the frosted glass-paneled door at the end of the hall, read the painted lettering decorating the pane. Photography Department. Therese felt a thrill run up her spine. Her breath caught. She stepped up to the door, reached out to open it—

The door swung open to reveal a disgruntled man in a rumpled white button down, suspenders, and a red tie. He rushed through the door, seemingly in a fit. In his closed fist, he clutched a bundle of crumpled paper. He pushed past Therese as if she weren’t even there, weren’t a fully-formed human in front of a doorway. Upon collision, he spared a moment to glance down at her, shooting her a look of pure derision. As if to say, who the hell are you and why are you darkening my doorstep?

Therese felt some of her excitement eke out of her step, some tension creep into her shoulders. The door to the Photography Department remained open, revealing a bustling collection of men carrying photos about. They all wore similarly tense expressions. Small creases dotted the space between their brows. Each face sported a thin line of a mouth. The room was a sea of wrinkled cloth and dark undereye circles. Deadline did not seem to be going well. 

Dannie was in the room. He looked ragged, exhausted. As Therese stepped into the room, he shot her a weak smile. “Therese! Bout time you hit the big time.” Therese returned his smile but quickly returned her attention to tracking the haze of movement and stress in the room. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her skin feeling too cold, her arms tingly and numb all at once. They all had their place here. They all had tasks and performed them with seeming ease. She was overwhelmed with a sudden assurance that she would not, could not, ever catch up to the swing of things. Her breath was trapped in her chest, tightening and tightening until she felt she would burst.

Dannie had paused in his frantic work to watch the smile slide from her face and the nerves overtake her features. His brow wrinkled. “Hey. Therese. Why don’t you come over here and gimme a hand. I could use your artist eye.”

Therese breathed out. Blinked. Nodded two curt nods, and followed Dannie’s lead to a table adorned with black and white photographs. Pictures of Senator Joseph McCarthy shaking hands with other government officials. Beside the pictures lay a scrap of paper upon which was scrawled, “McCarthy Appointed to Senate Committee on Government Operations, A1.” McCarthy. Therese peered down at the man, took in his heavy brows and large forehead. She squinted down at him. What made a man like that tic? What manner of momentum fueled his crusade? 

“So, basically we just need to pick a picture per headline,” Dannie said, interrupting her thoughts. He waved a hand at the larger table, at the other clusters of pictures, other accompanying scraps of paper. 

Therese looked back up at Dannie. “You want me to pick them?”

Dannie’s lips quirked. “Well, you work here, now don’t you?” He ran a hand through his hair, tousling the longer strands in the front. And sighed. “C’mon. George wants the photos sent to layout fifteen minutes ago.”

Therese looked back down at the photograph set. How to choose? She picked up the first option on her left gently between two fingers. How odd to hold the man, even just in image, who would sooner lock her up than speak to her. If he knew. She looked over the rest, decided upon an odd picture. McCarthy was gripping a cabinet member by the hand and arm. His grin was sallow, eerie, almost. The cabinet member did not look altogether pleased or assured. It was a dark photo. Something she knew most _Times_ employees would shy away from. It would place the _Times_ in a position of careful suspicion. Respectful uncertainty over the decision. It would, quite possibly, get her reprimanded. Or fired. Or something. Therese grazed her left cheek against her teeth. Placed the dark photo and scrawled headline on a tray bound for layout. Fortune favors the bold, wasn’t that what they said? Whoever they were… A shock fluttered in her throat, played across her sternum. On to the next.

The process went on much the same: Therese looking over each batch of photographs, selecting whichever she found told the most interesting story visually. She hadn’t a clue what the articles would say, how the journalists would spin the stories. She didn’t particularly care. She did her own journalist work right here, right then. Selecting signs and stories written in a language all of their own. In light and shadows and expressions and body language. Each picture she took into her hands, laid atop its corresponding headline eased the knot in her chest a little more. Each felt easier, let her breathe easier. She could do this. She could do this.

…

 

Carol was standing at window, holding the Bakelite telephone receiver to her ear in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other. As Therese closed the apartment door behind her, Carol smiled, pressed the receiver to her collar and mouthed the word, “Kitchen,” to Therese, nodded her head to the right.

Therese wrinkled her brow, doffed her coat, and followed Carol’s instructions into the other room. The white countertops were largely bare—Carol did not like clutter. Anything placed out was out for a reason—visually and practically. Anything else would always need be returned before long. Therese usually found the kitchen to be too clean. There was never a leftover crumb to be seen nor a stray dish left unwashed for later. It just didn’t seem right, she often thought. It felt unlived. People made messes. That was their way. But then, perhaps Carol’s way was cleaning. Organizing. Putting things into place.

Today, however, atop the counter sat a plate of three cupcakes, one adorned with a candle. Therese pursed her lips through a smile. Oh. How lovely. 

She could hear Carol’s footsteps in the hall, hear her approach the doorway and lean on the threshold. 

“I thought, perhaps, circumstance warranted a little celebration.” Carol was smiling—glowing almost. She looked… happy. Proud. Therese swallowed hard, her throat feeling suddenly quite small and her face quite warm.

Carol eased into the room, her arms lain across one another, hands coming to rest in their crooks. “How was your first day?” She came to stop a foot away from Therese, leaned slightly against the counter.

Therese glanced down at the linoleum, traced a finger over the edge of the plate. When she looked back up at Carol, she smiled a small smile. “Oh, it was fine. I didn’t get a grand tour or anything.” She shrugged. “They were actually running behind on photos, so Dannie had me pick the pictures for the headlines.”

Carol’s brows raised. “That _is_ something. Well, look at you.” Her voice was so warm. So approving. So… attentive. It almost made Therese nervous. To be watched so. Attended to. She was so used to Carol’s whirling speed, her movements—languid but flowing. Movements that she, Therese, would watch. It was only in glances that she caught up to Carol’s current. It was unnerving to have the tables turn so.

It wasn’t that Therese felt neglected by Carol. Not so much, anyway. It was that… they had their own pace with which they walked through life. Their own way of interacting with the world. As smooth and subtle as Carol could appear, she burst through space. She walked and moved with purpose, always with somewhere to be or something to do. Some goal to accomplish. Therese had a different way. A slower way. She felt the ground before she stepped. Perhaps it was a defensive move—being on guard in life. Perhaps she’d learned it at a young age. Learned to watch and take in the people, things, dynamics around her. She liked the practice most of the time. Liked noticing things, attending to things. She knew she traded that awareness for social interaction, knew that it left her quieter than most. But, still. Most of the time, it suited her better than any alternative. 

This time, though, with Carol watching her, Therese felt once again pinned. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was what others felt when they were around her. Or was it different because it was Carol? Was it a different thing altogether to have a woman like _her_ zero in on you than it is when someone already so quiet, so largely inconsequential invisibly watching? 

Carol took a step toward her. Therese felt the blush deepen. She pressed the flat of her forefinger against the countertop, pressed it as hard as she could. She centered her stance, pressing, too, her whole weight into the floor. Her pulse increased its tempo.

Carol tilted her head, opened her mouth, and—

The intercom in the living room buzzed out a serrated sound. Carol turned toward it, glanced back at Therese with a smile that was an apology. “We do have bad luck, don’t we?” She murmured before drifting out to the door to answer the machine’s call.

Therese blew out a breath as the tightness in her limbs eased somewhat. A thrill raced up her sternum and her face broke into a smile. She looked down at the cupcakes, took one into her hands, and followed Carol from the room. 

The voice blaring through the small machine was a harsher version of its owner’s unmediated voice. In the moment, the alteration seemed fitting. 

“It’s all wrong. She was all wrong, and now it’s over. So come out with me, or so help me, Carol, I will drink myself into a jail cell.”

Abby. Of course it was Abby. 

Carol grimaced, looked at Therese, rolled her eyes. “Abby, why don’t you come up and we can talk about this for a min—“

“I don’t _want_ to talk,” Abby huffed. The voice crackled and popped through the wiring. “I want to go out. Drink a martini. Spend time with someone who isn’t a total _harpy_.”

Therese winced. Carol sighed. Therese pressed her lips firmly together and tugged at the paper skirt dressing her cupcake. Oh goodness.

Carol dipped her head closer to the intercom. “Abby,” she began again, quieter this time. Placating. Pleading. “I’m with Therese. She just got a promotion. We were celebrating.”

Silence. Therese paused in her unwrapping. She looked up at Carol, over at the intercom.

“Well, bring her along, then.” Carol released a breath. She looked back at Therese, her head slightly tilted, her brows slightly drawn.

Therese shrugged. She could go out and get a drink. Carol seemed to want to—not to get the drink itself but to appease Abby. To make sure she didn’t do anything stupid. And, anyway, Abby hardly seemed likely to let the situation go.

Carol nodded at her and smiled. A smile that was a thank you. Therese turned back to the kitchen to return the cupcake to the plate. When she’d reentered the living room, Carol was already wearing her coat, already grasping her purse and keys. She stood, sighed, and waited for Therese. Therese grabbed her jacket and followed Carol from the apartment. 

Outside, Abby was pacing back and forth in front of the door smoking a cigarette. When they joined her on the pavement, she threw up a hand, shook her head, snapped, “I hate this. I hate feeling like this.”

Carol smiled gently. “I know, darling. Come on, now.”

She put an arm around Abby and ushered her toward the car. 

Therese followed them, quietly, watching her feet step onto each new section of pavement. Like she was following herself, too, in a way. How odd. 

They went to the same restaurant as they had on their last dinner excursion. With the same dark interior, same red-wine décor. Even as she heard the same piano music trickling through the air, Therese mused over the difference in tone. How much could change in a matter of months. She certainly didn’t _love_ Abby by any means. The woman was so abrasive, so tempestuous that Therese hardly knew how to act around her—something which seemed to suit Abby all the more. Still, there was a greater ease. Abby was no longer an unknown variable whirling around Therese and Carol’s relationship. She was a recurring character of sorts. And she, too, seemed much more familiar with Therese, much more willing to let her be. Or so it seemed at any rate. Therese knew that at the end of the day, she’d no clue what went on in Abby’s head. 

They settled into the booth, Carol and Therese on one side and Abby on the other. Abby sunk into the booth with a sigh, leaning her head back to rest against the wood there. 

“Why,” she groaned. Carol glanced at Therese, trying to stymie a smirk. “Why does this always happen?”

Carol signaled to the waiter that they were ready. “What happened this time? Martinis, please. Three,” She directed the man.

Abby gave Carol a hard look. She responded with a flat voice and hooded eyes. “Apparently I am _difficult_.” 

Carol’s smirk broke through her best defenses. “Well, darling. I hate to say this, but… well. You _are_.” 

Abby sighed again. “I know,” She propped her elbows onto the tabletop, dropped her head into her palms. “I _know_.” 

Therese watched the woman across from her. It was strange to see her like this. Wilted, almost. Whatever else she was, Abby was a strong figure. So brassy and confident. She engulfed the room in a fury of noise and movement. She was a forest fire; Carol a magnet. Wherever did that leave Therese?

“How do you do it?” Therese blinked. Abby’s eyes had reemerged, were flicking back and forth between she and Carol. “This.” She waved a hand at the space between them. “How do you not kill each other?”

The waiter arrived with the drinks. Carol kept her eyes on Abby. She had the strangest look on her face. Not quite a smile. Not quite a frown. Contemplation? Pity? Something. 

Abby very nearly pounced on her drink. She wrapped her hands around the stem of the glass, stared hard into its contents.

A moment passed. She glanced up at them again. This time, her expression was wry. “I’m being pathetic, right? I’m pathetic. Alright. Well, go on, then. Distract me.”

Carol chuckled and favored instead to stir the stick of olives around the perimeter of her glass and watch its journey. Therese smiled at her, lifting her own glass to her lips.

Her movement seemed to trigger something. Abby turned to her. “Therese. You started a new job. What is it? How is it? Tell me something before I lose it completely.”

Therese sputtered, thankfully not coughing out gin across the table. Still, she lowered her glass for good measure, pushed her back hard against the booth wall. What did Abby want her to say? Why did she care? 

But for all her wondering, Abby was still there, her eyebrows raised in impatience as if to droll out a testy, _Well_? 

“Um,” Therese started. What should she say? “I got transferred to the Photography Department. At the _Times_. So, pictures. I select the ones used for the articles. Or, anyway. I did that today. I don’t know if that will be what I regularly do or not.”

“Do you take pictures?” Abby was no longer watching her, her jaw supported by one hand still propped on the table. She had laid her other hand flat on the tabletop, spread her fingers wide as if testing their span. 

“No.” Therese said. “Well, I mean not yet.”

“But you want to. Be a photographer.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” And, truth be told, she did. She hadn’t thought much of the task initially. Of course the _Times_ had interested her. Of course photography had been her preferred work-line therein, but beyond that? She hadn’t let herself imagine it. She’d assumed she would be fetching coffee, running errands, moving around _other_ people’s ideas and _other_ people’s photos. But, taking her own? For a newspaper, for something _real_? The idea of it had seemed too vague. Impossibly abstract—a stack of maybes left best in the future. But now, with the new job and the showcase… things seemed to be settling into place. She was… a photographer. Could be a photographer. She smiled to herself, a warm thrill running up her sternum at the thought of introducing herself as that: as a photographer. How curious. How wonderful. 

“She has a show coming up.” Therese nearly jumped at the entrance of Carol’s voice. “Around the end of the month.” She was smiling down at her drink. She glanced up, noticing Therese’s attention, and winked. Therese felt her face flush, her mouth turn up at the edges.

“A show?” Abby glanced between them. Her tone had changed. Rather than her normal combative disinterest—asking questions seemingly for the mere sake of the asking—she appeared to be genuinely interested. Appeared… engaged. 

“A showcase.” Carol clarified, tipping her head a little in concession. She took a sip of her drink, looking over at Therese again. 

Therese felt overwhelmed. Her neck felt too hot, her skin too small for her body. She shifted in her seat. Oh, why were they looking at her so? 

“A showcase,” Abby repeated. She sounded impressed. But, oh no. No. That was too much. Therese cleared her throat.

She tried to wave off their interest. “It’s just a small thing, really. A new photographer’s thing. I’m just one of the people. It’s just a couple of photos, really—“

Abby interjected, “Still, that is something.”

“It is indeed,” Carol followed. It was more of a purr than a comment. 

Abby leaned back in the booth. She watched Therese for a while longer. Then, her gaze shifted to Carol’s. “Does one need an invite to this thing? Or can I just show up, tag along?” She smirked. “Cause some trouble,” she added as an afterthought.

Carol looked at Therese, brows raised. Therese’s mouth fell open. She wanted to… come? To the showcase? Why? They hardly liked each other. 

“N-no. No invites. It’s just an open house,” she answered though her head was filled with questions. 

Abby smiled, lifted her drink, and sipped.   
…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a smaller chapter this time. Small but sweet. 
> 
> On to the gallery showcase!


	11. Why Did People Talk of Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the showcase had finally arrived, and Therese found herself far more nervous than she'd expected.

Therese grasped the glass filled with champagne in both hands, tucking it against her body. She watched as the assistants carried her framed pictures, held them against the wall for her approval, hung them where she said. Six pictures lined up in an even line. Each accompanied by a small card naming the photograph and, of course, the photographer. Her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the next. 

Around her, other artists were bustling about with their own pieces—placing them, arranging them. In some cases, entirely revising the information card. Several of the photographers seemed to know one another. Ran in the same circles or such. It made Therese feel far away from the room. She turned her focus back onto the frames now hung along her wall. Such a strange thing to see her work splayed out along a surface—so officially framed, professionally contextualized. It was a far cry away from her usual setting of haphazardly pinning the photographs against a wall or stuffing them away in her gray box. Here, they seemed grander somehow. Like the light and the walls and the fanfare had changed their very material. She stepped closer to the pictures, her arms still wrapped around the glass. She stared at the black and white shapes. 

After a while, she became aware of another presence, just to her left. She turned her head slightly. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she became acutely aware of the temperature in the room—chilly on the verge of being outright cold. A man stood beside her—youngish. With floppy hair on top, just hanging over his eyebrows. He had a sharp face, and, noticing her movement, glanced over at her. He flashed a dimple. “These are some pictures.”

Therese’s lips twitched in what she hoped came off as a smile.

“Are they yours?” He continued. His head was tilted away from her so that his glance was nearly sidelong. Therese was fairly certain she did not like him.

“Yes,” she answered anyway. And turned back to the set.

“Nice.” He said. They stood in silence for a minute. “They’re very… local, aren’t they? Straightforward.” Therese’s brow furrowed. He spoke the words with the utmost confidence of relaying a compliment, but the words themselves did not, in themselves, sound complimentary. “Except for this one.” He stepped forward so that he was directly in front of her fourth photograph: a light one, featuring a single figure laid out on a bed: Carol. “ _Flung Out of Space_. Good title.” She wrinkled her brow. “An enigma.” Therese bit the inside of her cheek. “Who is she?” He turned back to look at her again, swirling the liquid of his own glass as he did so.

Therese did not answer him—whatever could she say, anyway? She didn’t know him from Adam. She looked at the man—taking in his button-down shirt, his argyle sweater vest. She owed him nothing. Let his enigmas remain so. She turned back to the photograph for a moment, took in a long look at the way its shadows seemed to cradle the sleeping Carol. Then, she sipped her champagne and smiled at him. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said before walking off. She bit her lip as she left him standing there, trying to stifle a smirk. 

…  
The room quickly filled with strangers milling—bohemian types in colorful tweed coats, sweater vests and dresses, which draped more freely than was respectable for the socially refined. Therese watched the people—they rushed about upon entering the gallery, dipped forward in bursts of energy to kiss the cheeks of friends. The air was clouded with idle chatter, laughter, gasps, and the occasional shout. She was standing near a wall—not too far from her own exhibit section, but far enough away that she could watch passersby without them assuming she was the photographer. Without them talking to her. 

Not that she was particularly anti-social. She just… it was too much. Too much to watch a series of people step up to her photos, peer at them—unknowing, perhaps uncaring about what they meant or whose lives they were investigating. Therese knew that her own picture-taking was a kind of invasion, a kind of voyeurism. But it was also a kind of caring. She cared for those pictures. She felt so inexplicably protective over the figures captured in light and shadow and the unknown stories they kept close to their chests. And then there was the picture of Carol…

It seemed to garner the most interest. Therese wasn’t all too surprised, though she knew that some part of her had wished it wouldn’t dominate the set. Wished that the picture of the magnetic woman would be somehow less so in two-dimensional form. But, of course not. Carol’s picture drew the eyes, dared them to question. While people drifted their eyes across the shapes of the other pictures, it was Carol’s form that beckoned their gaze down to the title card. Seeking some explanation perhaps? Some origin maybe? 

It was another reason to hold herself away from the photos. For she knew, like she knew her own name, that Carol’s picture would invite conversation. And conversation would, perhaps, include questions. Questions she was not entirely prepared to answer.

After an hour of drifting within careful range of her own work, keeping watch over her pictures like treasured possessions, Therese felt a change in the current of the room. She felt the way people’s eyes turned, peered, gazed out toward the door. Carol must have arrived. Therese followed the current, let her eyes wash over the woman with such startling blonde hair, such a clean and out-of-place vanilla dress, such strong hands. Carol was smiling, her head tilted toward Abby. She stood out in the throng of people like a beacon—so much so that Therese had had difficulty even noticing Abby beside her. Abby fit into the space much more easily. Her brash mannerisms and loud colors threaded her into the collage of faces and bodies. But Carol. Carol, in her vanilla dress and starlight hair, looked like a shimmering thing. Some ethereal being. It gave her pangs in her chest—such was the beauty, the mesmerizing figure of her. It also made her very nearly panic. For in her coloring, Carol had managed to evoke the same otherworldly glow that Therese had sought to capture in her photograph. 

Across the room, Carol threw her head back slightly and let out a laugh. As her head came down, her eyes landed upon Therese. They seemed suddenly to light up, to gleam. Her smile shifted, became something else tonally. Texturally. She reached over, looped her arm in Abby’s, and led them through the sea of people toward Therese.

She walked, and Therese waited. Time seemed to stretch the room like pulled taffy. Therese felt her heart beating, the sensation so tactile, so acute. Like it reverberated through her bones. The room around Carol seemed to turn in on itself, like the shapes and colors had blurred together—sound itself muted into slow mumbles, muffled murmurings—leaving nothing clear, not crisp and certain but Carol. Carol walking toward her. Carol who had come to see her show. Carol who had been so proud of her work… seemed so _sure_ of her skills. 

Abby and Carol stepped through the last line of gallery patrons, coming to a stop in front of Therese. As if a switch had been flipped in the room, casual conversation resumed its previous volume, color regained its saturation, shapes their definition. 

“Therese,” Carol said in greeting. She held her purse in the crook of her arm. It swung lightly, still rushing forward from her previous, walking momentum. Whether because of the atmosphere, the strangers faced away from her in either direction, or the thrill of exposing her photographs, she found herself sinking into those water-gray eyes. Dipping into them, catching at the glints of light therein. Surely, she could simply stand and stare into them for hours…

Abby stepped up to greet her, offering a single, thornless rose. “For you.” She shrugged. “For your show.” She wrinkled her brow. “Usually I’d bring a whole bouquet, but Carol seemed to think you wouldn’t like the fuss of it.”

Therese took the rose in her hands, smiling down at it. “No,” She ran a finger along the tip of one of the outermost flower petals. “No, I imagine I wouldn’t.” 

Carol tilted her head. A smile played across her lips, and she hummed a puzzling sound. Therese looked at her, questioning the non-comment. Carol simply squinted her eyes the barest amount. 

“Well. Great. Okay,” Abby said, clapping her hands together. “Art?” She raised her eyebrows.

They followed the current of the room, drifting from exhibit to exhibit. Abby surprised Therese with her knowledge of the works—none of them were familiar, of course. The showcase was comprised of nobodies hoping to graduate to the designation of “up and coming.” Still, she knew the language, seemed well-versed in the figures of the photographers echoed or drew from. 

In one instance, Therese had been so startled by her reference, that her mouth had dropped open. Abby had blinked back at her. 

“What? Is that not right?” Her brow wrinkled as she reached into her bag for a tube of lipstick. 

“No, I—” But, she… what? She was surprised a socialite knew about the technical aspects of art? She was surprised Abby knew so much about _her_ field of work? “I guess I just didn’t realize you knew so much about these… things,” she said sheepishly, finally.

Abby’s brows creased further. She frowned, mid application of lipstick. As if she was taking in the information and implications in Therese’s comment. Her eyebrows slung upward as her mouth turned into a smirk. She shrugged. “Well. Let’s just say I’ve _known_ an artist or two.” She glanced around. “It really is a wonderful hobby. The going, I mean.” She glanced down at Therese and tilted her head. “I’m sure the doing is all well and good, but I’m not one for all the chemicals and moving parts—” She shook her head quickly, as if sloughing off the thought of it all. Therese very nearly laughed aloud. “This place is _excellent_ , though. Lots of space. And they do seem to bring in some promising talent.” Her voice tapered off as her eyes continued to wander the crowd. 

Therese watched her for a few moments—what a perplexing woman—before feeling a soft touch on her arm. Carol was ushering her forward, leading her toward a photograph with a quiet murmur of, “Isn’t that just divine?”

…

They had almost completed the rounds when they’d reached Therese’s section of wall. A small crowd stood mercifully in front of the pictures, shielding them from view as the women approached. Therese could feel her pulse quicken, her face growing warmer, and her throat drier with each step forward. Her left hand gripped the glass and the rose, her right kneaded her thumb into the joints of her pointer and middle fingers. When they came to a stop, her toes curled. Oh god. Here they were. 

She was acutely aware of Carol’s careful posture. She had grown less easy, less joyous as they’d approached Therese’s exhibit. More… serious. Therese wasn’t sure which Carol she would rather stare down her work. The laughing woman politely appraising pictures, sharing her commentaries with Abby and her—or the serious woman beside her, poised to consider each collection of light and shadow. Therese became aware that her palms had started to sweat. 

The gathering of people in front of them walked on. Abby stepped boldly forward. Carol glanced at Therese with sparkling eyes before she began to follow. Her eyes ran the line of photographs. One, two, three—and then, she stopped. Stopped walking, stopped looking, stopped breathing, perhaps. 

Therese felt the blood drain from her face. Carol’s mouth was open slightly. Her brows were curved in toward one another—just a little. Not enough for a frown. Not enough to read as critical. But, a little. Some. She curved her neck into a tilt and her eyelids tensed as she took in that center picture—that curious mirror. 

Therese wanted to sink into the floor. She hated it. Surely. She must. Otherwise… well, she didn’t know what else, what otherwise. But this—this wasn’t good. _Couldn’t_ be a good sign. Oh, to have the floor open up—cavernous and gaping—and swallow her whole. She felt certain she would pay dearly to have been anywhere, to rewind it all from happening—to go back and still her impetuous, foolish hand from tipping _that_ photo into the submission pile. She’d _known._ She had _known_ it wouldn’t work—

Carol took a step forward. Therese heard all the noise in the room fade out—all the motion and laughter and chaos. Everything but Carol stepping toward the little black and white picture of herself. 

Somewhere—it could have been miles away—Therese heard Abby utter a quiet, quietly surprised, “Oh. Oh wow.” 

She did not look to see what she was referencing. She didn’t need to. 

Carol was barely a foot from the photo of her then. Her eyes scanned the width of it, raced around its shapes. She turned her head down—so, so like the others and yet not at all—to catch hold of the title. She let out a breath of air, and Therese could see her bring her closed hand to press against the bottom of her ribcage. 

She turned. Finally, she turned.

Carol’s eyes were just a little redder than they had been five minutes previously. Were just a little wetter. Her cheeks a little more flushed. She had this expression on her face—a little like shock, a little like happiness—as she shook her head slowly. 

“Flung Out of Space?” she asked quietly. Therese nodded.

Abby squinted at the picture, at Carol, “Bit of an obscure title, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Carol said, still looking at Therese. “Not at all.

…

They came home late that night—Therese’s eyes were heavier than they had ever been. The world practically swam in front of her vision. She was faintly aware of Carol’s hand on the small of her back, ushering her into the apartment, Carol removing her jacket, Carol leading her to the couch. 

She sank into the cushions—had they always been this soft? Carol disappeared around a doorway.

What a night. What a wild, wild night. She had known it would be taxing—inhabiting spaces filled with strangers always was for her. But she had not been prepared for how nervous she would get, seeing Carol standing there in front of the photograph of herself—one she’d not even known existed.

She tried to blink some of the sleep from her eyes as Carol reappeared carrying two cups of tea. She placed them on the coffeetable and settled in beside Therese.

Five minutes went by like that—them, sitting together in easy silence punctuated only by their leaning forward to take a cup and the ticking of a clock.

Then, Carol—still staring at the wall ahead—broke the silence. “Harge is calming down again. You know he wanted to take Rindy away for good, of course. We had a meeting yesterday.”

She took a sip of tea. Therese, not knowing what else to do, followed suit. 

“He wants me to swear off you, of course.” Carol looked at Therese out of the corner of her eye. “That will not happen. Obviously.” She turned back to face the wall. “But I assured him that we were discreet. People may talk, naturally. But it is all hearsay until we confirm it. And, I think we are happy living quietly.” She looked at Therese once more, more fully this time—her eyes full of questions. “Aren’t we?”

Therese swallowed a mouthful of tea, scalding her throat slightly. “Oh, yes.” She croaked out. Then cleared her throat. “Yes.” 

Carol seemed appeased, sated in some way. Her gaze softened. She sighed. “It all makes me feel so… useless,” she said finally. 

Therese blinked. “Useless?”

Carol nodded slowly. She ran her thumb along the edge of the teacup, pursed her lips. “I am _begging_ him to see my daughter. Trying to… justify the reasons why my relationship—” she looked hard at Therese, “My _good_ and _decent_ relationship will not _poison_ my daughter.” She scoffed, put her cup down on the table with too much force. The china clattered together in protest. “She’s my _child_ , for God’s sake. I’m her _mother_.” 

What should she say? What should she do? Carol so rarely opened up to her like this. When she did, it usually had nothing to do with Therese so much as it did Abby prying and prying into her mind. Now… Now, with her pouring out insecurities and emotions, Therese hardly knew how to catch them.

She opened her mouth, extended her hand, ready to do something, anything—

“I quite liked your work.” 

Therese paused. Every word that had been sitting on the tip of her tongue tumbled backwards, down her throat. 

“T-thanks.”

“That picture of me.” Carol said, evenly. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

She felt her heart sink. She should have known better… “I know, I’m sorry. I should have said—“

“Where was that from?” Carol asked as though she hadn’t spoken, glancing at her. 

Therese blinked, scanned the room for answers. She ran her lips over one another. “Iowa.”

Carol lifted her head in a half-nod. “Hmm. Yes, I thought so.” She looked over Therese, lingering on her shoulder, her cheek, her nose, her eyes. “I didn’t know you’d taken it.”

“Carol—I’m really sorry. I swear, I never—“

“It is such an interesting thing to see your photographs, you know. It tells you a lot about a person. Seeing the way they see. In frame.” Carol picked at a miniscule clump of lint laying on her skirt. 

Therese once again felt the words in her mouth be snatched away. What on earth was she going on about? Of course, yes. Yes, photographers did this. But why wouldn’t she let her apologize? 

“It was… ah, _enlightening_ to see that picture. To see, perhaps, how you see… me.” Carol looked up at Therese. Her eyes were endless pools that rushed forth in a deluge and swept Therese up. 

Oh. What?

“I—“ She stopped. What was she supposed to say? 

“I was surprised when I saw it. Happy, I suppose.” Carol’s brow furrowed. Like it was a task for her to find the right words, to say them aloud. “A little terrified, too.” She gave Therese a small smile, which, just as quickly as it came, seemed to melt off her face. “I have been feeling so…” Her eyes jumped up to the ceiling, ran back and forth over the wooden shapes. “Lost,” she finally breathed out. “I have been feeling lost. With Harge and Rindy and—and everything. It is,” She sighed, “A highly unpleasant feeling.” 

She pursed her lips, shook her head a little. Turned to look at Therese. “That picture. There was something so—oh, I don’t know the words for it.” She looked away again, pushed her curls aside with the back of her left hand. “Real? F-familiar? I’m not sure. _Something_. About that picture.” She chuckled a little. Therese could see the smallest bead of a tear rising along her lower eyelid. “It felt like being seen.” She nodded to herself or to Therese—she couldn’t be sure. Her eyes swung over to meet Therese’s. The edges were red again. She cleared her throat, lifted her hand to push aside curls that had already been pushed aside—suddenly uncomfortable. 

Therese felt her hand moving of its own accord. Reaching up, catching Carol’s hand—hearing the small gasp of breath Carol released in response. She couldn’t be sure she’d ever touched Carol before—not first. Not out of the blue. She was always following her. 

But now, she pulled their hands to her face, pressed her lips against the smooth, cool skin on the back of Carol’s hand. Kissed there like kissing were itself the perfect language of care, like somehow she could transfer some semblance of courage, support, love. She turned her face, pressing their hands against her cheek, and glanced up.

She caught sight of Carol, staring at her, mouth open, brows upturned. She looked so fragile in that moment. Like she would break apart, float away into the ether if Therese didn’t tread carefully, if Therese ever let go. 

_Let me hold you_. She thought it suddenly. Forcefully. The thought rushed through her body, coursed through her blood and bones. She stood, guiding Carol, leading her into the darkness of their room.

 

It was a strange experience. The leading rather than the following. Strange to flow over, hover around this woman whose very language was presence. Therese’s hands flowed along the lines of Carol, those dips and swells. She traced her edges—so softly. A kind of memorization, a kind of art. She ran her thumb up from the divot of Carol’s collarbone to the arrowhead of her jaw; grazed her lips down the contour of Carol’s cheeks; let her had fall onto the peak of Carol’s hip bone—a place she fit so well, however could she fit so well there?—and gripped there the body, this body that she loved so much.  
Her skin was so soft. Her strong form suddenly so slight. In the dark with only an intruding beam of streetlight to show them each other, Carol looked like the Milky Way, like a galaxy, like she had been breathed out as stardust solidified as a woman. Therese fanned out her fingers over Carol’s abdomen, pouring over, caressing each inch, centimeter, millimeter of her. With her fingers, she sought and sought and sought…

Carol answered each touch, each move with sounds of acquiesces—a chorus of breaths and sighs and little murmurs. Therese drew her head back to catch hold of Carol’s eyes, and her heart leapt a thousand miles. Her head had been thrown back, was just now moving down again, and, as her eyes met Therese, the younger woman could see a thousand things therein. 

Carol’s eyes were open, and she was breathing heavily. She seemed startled and a little… scared. Like she was bewildered by Therese, by their being there, by their sudden intimate awareness of one another. At once, she was so open, so vulnerable in that moment. So exposed. Therese, watching Carol watching her, became aware of her legs straddling Carol, of Carol’s sternum as it rose and fell, of Carol’s arms—one raised, one resting on Therese’s leg. In synchronic rhythm, they stayed like that for a few moments—locked and harmonic.

Something had changed. Something shifted. Just a little—barely an inch, hardly a centimeter. Not even enough to notice. But shift it did. Therese could feel the change ripple through her in a thousand ways. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of it, and so she leaned in, pressed her lips against Carol’s, threaded her fingers into those starlight curtains, wound her legs around Carol’s own—anything and everything to braid them together. To bridge that gap between their individual selves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And what a photograph it was…


	12. As Happy As You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Carol gets called away for a meeting, Abby and Therese have a heart-to-heart.

…  
Carol reached out an arm to take the plate from in front of Therese. 

“Thank you,” the younger woman murmured again around the dabs of her napkin against her lips. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Carol murmured. She finished clearing the table, removing the dirtied dishes to the kitchen and out of sight. Therese could hear the gentle clatter of china as Carol carefully stacked the plates, the rushing of water as she turned on the faucet and readied to wash them. Therese traced the grain of the wood on the table as she listened to Carol wash dishes. It seemed surreal, though she knew it shouldn’t. She knew Carol washed dishes all the time—had, in fact, seen her do so. Still, there was something almost unbelievable about it now—now, when Therese _couldn’t_ see her. She’d only watched her disappear and heard the sounds drift inward from the other room. It could be an entirely different person for all she knew. 

Though, of course, it wasn’t. She knew that. 

“Abby should be here any minute,” Carol called in from the kitchen. Her comment was punctuated with the clinking of china as it was staked on the drying rack. “We’re looking over those pictures? Do you remember them? The end tables? Abby thinks she might know someone who would buy them, but we need to look at the detailing.” More light metallic collisions. Silverware. “You do remember? I swear I told you about—“

“I remember,” Therese said in response. Her voice seemed so loud, so intrusive—like it had burst through the clandestine symphony of Carol washing dishes. She placed her hands flat against the cool wood of the table. Just at the center—in between her hands, barely reaching her thumbs—the wood was still faintly warm from her plate. They’d finished eating nearly an hour ago—just sitting there, talking about nothing much in particular—but the china had insulated the wood enough. It felt a little like she was reaching back through time and grasping at a moment in the past. A moment not so long ago, but not so close either. 

She pulled her hands back, slowly easing her fingers off the wood, as Carol stepped back into the room. She was rubbing remaining droplets of water from her skin. She seemed so much more at ease in the space. She still slid through the air as if the molecules couldn’t touch her—as if they silently parted to let her by. But, anymore, such parting seemed softer somehow. Smoother. Carol smiled at Therese, her brows raised in question at Therese’s attention. “Yes,” she asked in a mock-droll voice.

“N-nothing,” Therese felt her face begin to flush. “I was just—I just really enjoyed breakfast. So, thank you.”

Carol looked skeptical. “You’re welcome.” The phrase seemed to linger at its end. Like Carol had wanted to tack on a question mark, wanted to punctuate the words with the confusion or uncertainty she seemed to be feeling—but could not, would not do so. 

The intercom let itself be known from the living room, and Carol ran her hands down her skirt once more as she walked to the other room and buzzed Abby up. 

…

 

Therese was pinching the corner of the pulpy paper between her index finger and her thumb. The page she gripped had been poised to turn for the last five minutes, but Therese’s eyes were not scanning its words. Instead, she was watching the two women sitting a ways across from her on the couch, leaning over pictures spread across the coffee table. Occasionally, Carol would murmur something to Abby. Abby would respond in turn. 

Therese wasn’t entirely sure what grabbed her attention about the two of them. They were simply working through a collection of furniture images. Simply shuffling photographs and lists and discussing trends, dealers, designers. Nothing about the scene was out of the order nor particularly interesting. Any yet. Therese found her eyes tracing the arc of Carol’s reach as she picked up a photograph, grazing the tilt of Abby’s head as she attempted to envision on of Carol’s suggestions. 

Carol glanced up mid-sentence and caught hold of her gaze. Her lips curved slightly, her eyes squinted barely. 

The phone rang, cutting through the air with a serrated edge. Therese jumped in her seat, jostling her book from her hands. She looked down at the fallen book, and her fingers—still clenching a small corner of the page. She must have torn it. She wrinkled her brow, looking up in time to see Carol picking up the phone and begin to speak in a low voice. 

Therese trained her eyes on Carol’s face to catch each and every expression. Who was on the other end of the line? Normally she would assume it was Abby calling. Carol nodded at the wall, added a hum of assent. “No, I don’t want that. I just wanted—Yes. Yes, that would be fine.” Carol placed her palm flat against her sternum, rubbed over her collarbone with two fingers. “Today?” She glanced over at Abby, at Therese. Her eyes lingered for a moment. Then she turned away, back to face the wall. “Yes. I can drive over now. Right.” Her back facing Therese, she removed her hand from her collarbone to wrap it around her waist. “I will see you soon. An hour maybe? And, Fred. Thank you.” She sighed. 

Fred. Her lawyer? So it was about Harge then. Their meeting to discuss the terms of visitation. And Rindy. Therese remembered Carol telling her that things were improving, that they’d already met once to come up with a new plan. She hadn’t mentioned any sort of conclusion or arrangement. But, then, neither had she mentioned another meeting. Therese looked over her. She seemed flustered. Her eyes swept the room, perhaps seeking out any items she might need to amass for the meeting. Shoes, jackets, purse. With the receiver placed back in its cradle, her hands were left to fidgeting—smoothing the creases of her skirt, fluttering over angles of her body to rest for a moment before moving on. It seemed almost as if she’d forgotten what she’d just agreed to or planned on. 

“So, I take it lunch is off, then?” Abby drolled in a half-hearted voice, but her eyes were focused intently on Carol’s hands. 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I’m sorry, dear. Fred called. Harge is concerned about—well. Anyway. We’re going to meet and settle things. I just need to…” Her voice trailed off. She looked around again. 

Therese walked over to the front door, pulling Carol’s purse and jacket from a hook. She carried them back over to Carol who gave her a soft smile in return, squeezing her upper arm in thanks. She slipped on her shoes from beside the couch, straightened her back, and looked again at the two women before her. 

“Well. Here goes.” She let out a breath. “It is completely ridiculous of me to be this nervous. I feel I’ve had this conversation a thousand times.” 

Abby swung an arm over the back of the couch, leaning into the cushion. “And, from what I hear, those experiences should make them more nervous than you. Just give them hell.”

Carol scoffed and readjusted her purse in the crook of her arm. Even so, her face seemed less weary—brightened somewhat. 

“Do me a favor and tell Harge to get bent, will you?” Abby batted her eyes in mock demure. 

Carol answered her with a sarcastic look. “Oh yes. That would help my cause immensely, I am sure.”

Therese wanted to do more, say more. But she found herself again at a loss for the right thing, the right assurance. “I—I really hope everything goes well. For you, I mean. I’m sure it will, but… you know.” She felt her face grow warm.

Carol’s lips turned up. She stepped closer to Therese, leaned in. Kissed her cheek. It was such a warm thing—Carol’s breath brushing along her jaw, her lips pressed to her skin. “Thank you,” Carol replied, barely pulling away. “I will see you for dinner?” Therese smiled, nodded in response, and stepped back to allow Carol by. 

Carol nodded at them. Straightened herself, and strode out of the apartment. 

They sat quietly for some time.

Abby turned to Therese. Therese mirrored the act. 

“Let’s get lunch.” Abby said suddenly. Brusquely. 

Therese blinked. 

Abby tilted her head as if releasing its weight to punctuate the silence. As if to say, _Don’t give me that._

“We’re going. I’m starved.” She swung her legs out of their crossed position, rose from the couch. As she picked up her clutch from the side table, she glanced back at Therese. “It’s my treat.” What should have been a kind offer sounded more like a command coming from the mouth of Abby Gerhard. Therese shook her head lightly at the ground, gathered her things, and followed the woman out the door. 

…

 

Therese eyed the purple doors of the restaurant as it grew closer and closer. It was an unfamiliar place. Therese had assumed they would go to their usual haunt, tuck themselves into their usual, corner booth, and feel the ever-present absence of Carol throughout. Instead, Abby had directed the car to a wholly new space. Therese felt her palms begin to sweat. 

The restaurant’s interior was dark but brightly decorated. Nearly garish. Abby eased past the host, walking straight to a corner section of the bar on his left. The bar top was a reddish wood. Glossed heavily with varnish and wood polish. Within seconds of their arrival, two napkins appeared in front of them. The bartender flung a towel across his shoulder, waited for their order.

“I’ll have a whiskey. Neat.” She glanced at Therese. “And the usual. Thank you, Jay.” 

Therese watched her for a minute. Ordered herself food and a beer. The bartender—Jay?—nodded and got to work on the drinks. Abby kept her eyes on the rows of bottles lined up behind the bar. Neither of them spoke. Therese listened to the music filtered through the space from the dining area. A bass voice, a clarinet descending notes, a trumpet smoothly running lines, a syncopated drum beat—all woven around each other so that the space itself felt relaxed, easing along its way. Yet, energized somehow. 

The drinks arrived. Abby took a sip, tossed her head back, and sighed happily. She finally looked over at Therese. “Hmm. Nothing better,” she said in a low voice.

Therese felt her brow furrow as she wrapped her hands around the brown bottle of beer placed in front of her. The glass was coated in a thin layer of condensation. She welcomed the beads of water on her skin. “Why do you get martinis if you like whiskey so much? When we are out for dinner, I mean.”

Abby looked at her. Watched her. Therese very nearly apologized for the questions when Abby finally answered her. “Because Carol wants martinis.” She said it like it was a conclusion. Like it was clear. And, of course, for Therese, it was. It was entirely clear. She looked down at the bar top. “And I know she’d rather not drink them alone, so… I order martinis.” 

Therese simply nodded. She didn’t know what else to do. 

Their food arrived. Abby picked at the lettuce beneath the sandwich she’d ordered. “You’ve been good for Carol.”

Therese froze. She felt the back of her neck prickle. 

Abby continued. “I saw her when you two… well, when everything went to shit with Harge and the lawyers. She was all torn up about it. I wasn’t so sure you were good for her then.” She looked at Therese. Tilted her head. “But here you are.” 

Therese stared hard at the bar top. She turned her bottle in slow, ambling rotations. What did she want her to say? _Did_ she want her to say anything?

Abby looked back down at her drink, swished the whiskey around the glass, took another sip. “And I was wrong. About you.” Her eyebrows jumped up in concession. “She needs you.” She shrugged. “You make her happy. And she can use that right about now.”

Therese looked up at her. “I don’t—“

“I’m _trying_ to mend fences. Or something.” Abby cut into her confusion, placing her right hand flat against the bar top in Therese’s direction. “Look. Therese. I know we’re not… I don’t know—friends, what-have-you. We’re just here, right? You and me… and Carol.” She looked Therese right in the eye. Therese felt herself lean a little ways away from Abby. Her right hand came down to clutch at the seat of her stool. The woman was so intense it seemed to singe her. She felt the strangest sense of guilt or something—like she’d just been caught complicit in a crime she never knew she’d committed. “We have our differences.” Abby went on. She rolled her eyes at the ceiling, let out a puff of air. “But I’m not in your way. Okay?”

Therese’s brow furrowed. Her fingernails dug at the wood. “I-I’m not sure I—“

Abby shook her head. Was she drunk? She seemed so frustrated. “I am… I am an overprotective piece of work. Right?” Therese vehemently agreed. And yet, she did not move. She was terrified any gesture would be taken for an answer. Any answer an affront. “But I’m not a monster. And I don’t hate you.” She tilted her head at Therese. “I _don’t_.” Therese nodded quickly. Of course, of course. “It’s just… I love her. You know? Not… not like that. Not really. Not anymore. Just…” She ran a hand through her hair, ushering the wave of bangs back until her palm reached their end and they sprung free, flying back to her face. The movement was a fascinating imitation of Carol. Therese felt an absurd and sudden desire to laugh. To smile and point out the learned quirk. She did neither. “Carol seems strong. She acts it. Likes people to think she’s some kind of perfect, stoic woman. I don’t know why. God knows her _pristine_ friends could stand to see an emotion or two for once. But she does. She does and that is that.” Her eyes fell onto the bar top, her brows drew together, and she traced the grains in the wood as if they would reassure her, answer her, explain all of it to her somehow. “But, of course, she isn’t. She’s—a _person_.” Her gaze met Therese’s.

“I know.” Therese heard herself before she could comprehend the act of answering. Her voice sounded so foreign, so graveled, almost a defense. She tried again, louder this time, with more conviction. “I know.”

Abby nodded slowly at her. “Yeah. I know.” She took a deep breath, raised her glass to her lips and took a longer drink. Grimacing, she swallowed. Tossed her head back. Sighed. 

“I just—“ Therese broke off as Abby swung the full weight of her attention back to her. “Um. I just sometimes… Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I wonder why… me? We’re so different. _.So_ … different. And why—well, look at you two. Things ended with you, didn’t they? How am I supposed to believe we will work out when you didn’t?” Her chest was a hollow cave, and its edges ached. She blinked quickly, stymying the stinging that had overcome the corners of her eyes. Breathing was suddenly a painful endeavor. She felt her heart begin to race at the thought, _thoughts_ threatening to spill over and overtake her attention. 

“You can’t.” Abby leaned her head onto her folded hand, propped on the bar top. She shrugged. “You can’t know that.”

Therese opened her mouth. Closed it. Drew her brows together, and looked down. 

“But,” Abby continued, her voice strong, bolstering, “You can know that it is different. You two are different. Like you said,” She nodded her head a little to the side. “Therese,” she took a breath. “You are an entirely singular woman. So is Carol. Something about you made… oh, what is it the poets say? It made her heart sing. Same for you, I’d bet. It’s not a science. You can’t calculate probabilities or anything. You can only live.” She moved her glass in a circle on the bar, watching the remaining liquid rise and fall in the rotations. “And I would bet a hell of a lot of money that you’d rather live it with her than not.”

Therese nodded. “She wants me to move in with her.”

Abby nodded in return. “That she does.” She raised her eyebrows, glancing up. “And what about you? What do you want?”

Therese felt her heart beat loudly again. Setting her tempo, setting her course. Therese drew small circles on her stool seat with her fingertips. What did she want?

She could see herself waking up every morning beside Carol. She felt a thrill run up her sternum at the thought of making Carol coffee, of calling the little apartment ‘home,’ and meaning it. She supposed it would make her happy. She knew so many things , so many little things, that she loved about the idea of living with Carol. _Living with Carol_. And yet… Could she? She grew nearly dizzy thinking of the changes of the year? This time last year she was staving off Richard and his advances, coming up with excuse after excuse for not living with _him_. She’d wanted her space, she needed a darkroom, she was closer to work where she was—so many excuses. Then Carol had walked into her life in that giant golden coat, those brilliant red nails, that small red cap. That smile. And everything had changed. Massively. Suddenly. Forcefully. She’d not stopped moving since. She’d chased and yearned and hoped and longed for Carol so much it had become muscle memory. She wondered what would happen if she stopped. Stopped chasing and started… _living_. Abby was watching her with concern now. She was waiting for an answer, growing wary of the silence. Of what that silence might mean. 

“Carol,” Therese said finally. “I just want Carol.”

Abby nodded again, shot her eyebrows up like a kind of salute, and smiled down at her whiskey as she raised the glass once more to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I apologize for the late posting. I'm actually a graduate student, and my life has gotten exponentially busier in the past few days. Still, on I prevail, on I write, and on I post--if only with slightly longer delays between.
> 
> As always, even when I don't have the time to respond to them, I love reading your thoughts and considerations of these beloved characters. It helps keep me dedicated to this thing and expands my own understanding of their characterization. So, thank you all.


	13. So Fragile, So Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Therese meet up to get a much-wanted item for the apartment; Therese and Dannie deal with workplace tension.

Therese shifted her arm, swung it up to move a strand of hair the wind had blown into her face. She squinted against the breeze. Carol was supposed to meet her—she checked her watch—fifteen minutes ago. They were to meet at a boutique to pick out a wardrobe for the bedroom. Carol had insisted on buying one for Therese’s clothing. There simply was not enough room for them both in Carol’s closet, and Carol had set her mind to fixing that. The boutique in question was a small thing, nestled in between two larger stores—a pharmacy and a jewelry store. The door was glass, framed in black metal. And, on this warm summer day, it was propped open. Therese could barely make out a few rows of lamps, dinner plates, and end tables for the sun blaring down on her. She let out a breath, twisted the balls of her right foot into the pavement. Where _was_ she?

Another gust of wind pulled her skirt, throwing the wool across her legs. She followed the flow of it, turning to face the intersection to the left of the boutique. The line of the sidewalk in front of her met the line of a department store building beyond. Her breath caught. She took in the corners, the shadows, the light—the way the limestone exterior looked so smooth, so different. So unlike the bleak and dry appearance it had had so many months ago. Her eyes drifted further, down the wall, over rows of tinted windows, to a large sign displaying the name of the building: Frankenberg’s Department Store. Therese felt a lump in her throat. She’d largely hated that job, longed for the brief duration of her work there to end each day. But, also. Looking at the building now, she was overwhelmed with a tender sensation. It was a kind of warmth. A humming in her throat and her chest and her toes. She felt a smile growing on her face despite herself. Felt the sun on her shoulders grow a little less heavy, a little more energizing. What a funny thing: this place, this history, this life.

A flurry of movement tugged at her gaze just below her sightline. She lowered her eyes to the image of Carol, walking toward her at a brisk pace. Therese’s smile widened. A funny thing, indeed. Carol looked flushed, rushed. She was wearing a jacket—in this heat?—and swept the hair from her face as she neared Therese. 

“Darling.” She breathed out in a husk, “I’m so sorry I am late. Abby and I got held…” She stopped talking, stopped apologizing. Her brows came together as she took in Therese’s elation. “You’re not upset. What—“ She tilted her head a little. The ghost of a smile haunted her lips. “What it is?” Her voice was careful, dipping and leaning toward some secret she seemed so eager to know. 

Therese glanced down in light embarrassment. “It’s just. Well, look where we are.” She nodded toward the department store off across the street. “Brings back memories, I suppose.” 

Carol turned her head and looked at the building for what felt like a very long time. When she turned back to Therese, she was smiling that puzzling little smile. A mystery in the shape of a curve. “That was a good day,” she agreed in a low voice.

Therese felt her cheeks begin to flush. 

Carol stepped closer to her, paused, opened her mouth, and—a car zoomed past them, interrupting the reverie. Carol cleared her throat, stepped back, but lifted her hand to squeeze Therese’s upper arm. “One of the best days,” she said quietly, before stepping around Therese into the little shop behind them. 

Inside were a great many kinds of things—loveseat chairs, armchairs, tables of all sizes, assorted silverware and pewter pieces, glass vases, chandeliers. The space had a curious claustrophobic tone to it. Everything was too close, too fragile, and yet, it was all too inviting to the eye to look away. Therese lapped up the sights, peering at each and every thing she could catch with her eyes.

Carol spoke with the shop owner, followed him to a section nearer the back of the store lined with wardrobes, trunks, dressers, and large furniture pieces. Therese trailed behind them, running her fingers along the edges of tables and the wooden arms of chairs as she walked. She seemed to float amongst the wares, drifting and bobbing along the swelling bulk of items capped in price tags. She looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floors—heavy metal lamps with red-orange glass shades dangled from the ceiling, nearly touching the wares below so that the space felt less like a room than a man-made jungle. 

“Therese,” Carol called out softly. Therese walked over to them. Carol and the shop owner were standing before a large oak piece—honey-colored wood with one large mirror standing in the center. The mirror sat between two large doors—each decorated with a layered square carving—that swung outward, revealing space and shelving within. 

Carol looked at Therese. “Well? What do you think? The color is a little light, but the design is quite lovely. 1930’s. Sturdy. A little elegant. I do prefer it to some of those Art Deco monstrosities, I must say. I was thinking of putting it on the left side of the room. You know, near that chair—”

Carol went on for a few minutes. Therese nodded on cue, but she knew the comments were largely just for Carol alone. Therese glanced around once more. So many things to look at, to wonder at. A little ways away, seated atop a low dresser, sat a vase—royal blue with little gold details. It looked like it was porcelain. Therese sighed at the sight of it. How beautiful. 

“So, do we have a winner?” Carol drew her hands together, threaded her fingers. Tilted her head with a smile at Therese. 

“Oh. Yes. It seems perfect.” She briefly turned back to Carol, giving her a small smile in return, before her eyes drifted back over to the vase. It was one of those little things that mattered so barely in the grand scheme of things. When the world burned or turned, who, really, would care for a vase? One that wasn’t even famous or valued at some ridiculous price. But one that was beautiful all the same. Very few, she would hazard to guess. Yet, it was also something special—even in its inconsequentiality. It was such a beautiful thing—a beautiful thing that some person had made with their hands. Had crafted with care and time and effort. Though Therese knew what it felt like to make a work of art—her hands submerged in chemicals, in a dark red room, her photos dripping and developing—she never lost that wonder. A wonder at the way things could exist which seemed so extraordinary, so impossible, and yet which were made by a person just like her. A person who could very well be walking by her on the street come the next hour, minute, day. 

Behind her, she was faintly aware that Carol was murmuring to the shop owner, arranging for the payment and shipping of the wardrobe no doubt. A shop hand walked by and took the vase from its perch. Therese felt its loss like a valued heirloom, even as she knew the sensation would be brief. She shook her head at the floor lightly, nearly laughing at herself. So silly to attach to such temporary things. Carol came up behind her, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder—just barely, just enough to feel her presence. “Are you ready?” Carol asked.

Therese nodded with her head turned to the side, turned toward Carol. Raising one foot after the other, one step after another, they left the store and entered the sunny street outside.

…

Therese walked into the Photography Department office to a tumult of voices arguing with one another. Chester Lewsky, Tom Higge, and Dannie stood at opposing sides of the room, volleying shouts back and forth. Therese blinked at the sight, uneasily attempting to slide herself behind the swinging bodies of the men. She let out a breath as she eased by. She looked over at Dannie, attempted a nod toward his direction. He raised a hand absent-mindedly in return before turning back toward Chester with a, “Well, now, that is entirely unfair—” 

Ah, well. She doffed her purse and jacket—it was mostly for appearances anyway. Her blouse, even with its short sleeves, never got her into trouble. And anyway, in a room this small filled with this many people, the air got stuffy and warm fast. 

Therese set her things aside, tucking them below her desk space in a corner of the room. She sat down in a rolling chair, eyeing the various papers scattered atop the desk. Mostly notices: deadlines, to-do lists, reminders to return a phone call or answer a letter. Things that did not particularly demand her attention. She rolled the chair over to the nearby photo table. Across it, a series of images were scattered, slips of paper awaiting headlines lay haphazardly stacked in a basket to the side. What was today’s news? She lifted a photograph directly in front of her: a woman in a fitted suit jacket and skirt, her black bangs were curled into one large coil, her makeup artfully done. She was startling, smiling, and posed in such a way that could not help but bring sex to mind. Therese wrinkled her brow—who was this? She seemed so oddly familiar. There was not a headline yet to identify her…

A new chorus of argumentation broke through her concentration.

“Oh _please_ , McElroy. Wepplo rules it’s obscenity! There is no way the feebs aren’t going to catch her, catch her little photographer friends, and lock her up for good.”

Another voice chimed in. “A damn shame, if you ask me. I’ll be dreaming of those legs from here to Sunday.” Therese grit her teeth and stared at a section of empty table where the photograph she now held used to lay.

She heard Dannie’s voice enter the fray. “There is no precedent, Lewsky. Sure, Wepplo’s is in place now, but the vagueries and ambiguities of it are all over the place! Who is to say what is obscenity anymore?” 

“You think Page isn’t obscene?” Therese glanced at the picture. Bettie Page. Right. McCarthy and his lot were skirting around the edges of everything nowadays, sniffing out any instance of inappropriate media. Therese had read of other models getting fined, their faces and careers splashed across the papers. Page hadn’t, to her knowledge, come under fire yet. Even though her name and face were no mysteries. 

“She’s an _angel_.” The second voice—was that Tom?—oozed with arousal. Therese let out a breath. 

“ _Stuff it_ , Tom.”

“C’mon. Lewsky. How many politicians do you think buy her work? Probably enough to keep her out of the hot seat. Feebs can’t catch what half the cabinet is buying.”

Chester scoffed. Therese looked at him more fully now. He had a thick neck that lead to broad shoulders—the kind of neck that made him look like he should have out playing some sport for a living. His button-down shirt was too large for him, draped across his body in a way that Therese could only assume he thought looked hip. Her lip curled slightly. One side of his shirt hung from his pants, the other tucked in—a carefully curated look of overworked rumple. He ran a hand through his slicked blonde curls. “That’s ludicrous. No one is safe anymore. The big guy cleaned out five more guys from that precious cabinet just last week for far worse than what Page could sling. Rooting out fairies and perverts left and right. Good riddance, if you ask me.”

Therese’s skin grew cold. She put the photograph back in its place on the table.

“No one asked you.” Dannie shot back. Therese glanced up at him, meeting his eyes, and giving him a small smile of thanks. She was feeling suddenly quite uncomfortable.

Chester’s face broke into a sly smile. “What’s the matter, _McElroy_? Hit too close to home?” He let out a chuff, leaned against the table behind him. “You got a boyfriend or something?”

Dannie’s face darkened. “No, I don’t. But that don’t mean that it’s all fine for you to promote some witch hunt coup. Half those men were probably just on someone’s bad side. The other half, well, what’s the harm in their working a job they’ve been working—just because you know something you didn’t know before?” 

Therese rolled her chair back a foot, back away from the altercation. These days, this kind of conversation was dangerous. People heard things; people said things. Support was the sister of admission. Complicity had never been so blurry. She looked over at Dannie. His face was flushed; his breath had quickened. On her right, Chester was lighting a cigarette.

He took a drag. “You’re kidding right? Because it’s disgusting. That’s why. Because I am not working my ass off on this job to pay for some fairy’s way into power over my goddamn life and liberty. It’s perverted what they do. Just not right.” He tapped his cigarette, sending ashes scattering to the floor. Therese felt a sudden urge to walk over to him, snatch the cigarette from his hands, and shove the burning end down his throat. Instead, she began to tap her foot quietly.

“We’re all people, aren’t we? We all love and live and—” Dannie began.

Chester cut him off with a wave of his hand and a groan. “Cut it out will you? Your philosophy bullshit makes my head hurt. I don’t need _my_ head shrunk. Leave that fun little experience to someone else.” He glanced over at Therese for the first time. His heavy-lidded eyes ran down the length of her body. “Besides, isn’t that what you keep her around for? You can psychoanalyze your little girlfriend until the cows come home. Leave the rest of us our peace.”

The room was all stillness and silence. Dannie’s skin had lost its red hue in favor of a sickly white, his face contorted in a strange maze of anger and confusion. Therese’s foot froze. What? How? Such a dangerous conversation, such a close call. No one moved for a good minute. Even Tom, oblivious to the end, simply looked from Chester to Dannie and back again, seeming to test the air and its tension. He shuffled his feet a little. The phone beside him peeled out a ring sending Tom jumping into the air and scrambling to grab the receiver. 

“H-hello? Yeah, boss. Sure thing. We were just—Oh yeah, no problem.” Therese glanced back over to Dannie. His face was turned down toward the floor, but his eyes met hers. “We’ve got them all right here. Just the headlines, yeah. Oh. Yes, sir. Okay. Five minutes, tops.” Tom returned the receiver to its cradle. Three pairs of eyes landed on his face.

“Um, boss says headlines are downstairs. They got an exclusive for some prime minister in town, though. Last minute thing. So. Somebody’s gotta go get Eddie’s picture from his studio on 5th.” His face darted from Chester’s to Dannie’s. He glanced briefly at Therese, but of course she held little interest. 

Chester eased off the table, lazily hooking his finger under the hem of his jacket draped on the chair beside him. “I’ll go,” he muttered around his cigarette. “I could stand some exercise. You girls have fun with the headlines.” He kicked lightly at the leg on Dannie’s table as he crossed the room to leave. 

When they could no longer hear his footsteps receding down the hall, Dannie let out a breath. “Asshole.” 

“Eh, he’s not so bad,” Tom returned, lifting a hand to tousle the back of his hair so that it looked properly mussed. Therese was reminded yet again of how little she understood men. 

Dannie shot him a quelling look. Tom cleared his throat and turned away to shuffle the papers on his desk. “Um. Headlines. So. Downstairs. We should—I’ll just go and get those… now.” He slid from the room, clutching an armful of papers. 

Therese stood, pushing the chair backward a little with her foot as she tensed to walk over to Dannie. He was running his hands down his face, still leaning against the table behind him. As she neared him, he released a loud groan.

“ _Why_ is he like that? Every time we get a damn story, he has to offer his _damn_ opinion about it.”

Therese came to stand next to him, leaned against the table beside him. Dannie let his hands drop to his sides. He simply sat there, breathing, for some time before turning his face up to look at Therese. “I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for existing. And for not being a total nosebleed.”

Therese smiled and scrunched her brows. “What?” she laughed.

“You’re just here. And you’re you. And you had to listen to all that slog, but you’re still here. Making sure I’m not a wreck.” He tilted his head. “You’re something else, Therese Belivet.”

Therese looked down, nodded at the floor slowly. “You’re not such a loss yourself, Dannie.”

Dannie sighed, glancing at the ceiling. “Well. That sure switched the tone of my day.”

“I bet you can bounce back.” Therese rocked sideways, bumping into Dannie’s shoulder lightly.

Dannie huffed. He seemed… tired more than anything else. “Yeah, maybe. Either way, I’ve got that thing at Phil’s tonight, so—here’s hoping.” He pushed himself up, and walked toward the central table of the room and the collection of photographs lain out on it. 

“Thing at Phil’s?” Therese asked. She hoped her voice sounded casual. She was used to hearing about them. The parties. Getting some invitation. She rarely went, of course, but she had liked knowing. Eventually the wording on the invitations had changed. Had become less expectant. Then, about two weeks ago, they’d stopped altogether. She hadn’t quite realized until the other night, when Carol had gotten an invitation in the mail for yet another dinner party. It was an odd moment—both realizing she was no longer a part of her former group of friends and realizing that she hadn’t even noticed the loss of them. It gave her an ache, almost. A sudden and strange sensation of loneliness. Like she’d forgotten her sweater on a cold day.

Dannie turned back toward her. “Phil’s party. The usual thing?” She looked back down at the table, began to move photographs into discernable categories. “You know. Didn’t you get the note?”

Therese looked down at the table, ran her thumb along its edge. “Must have missed it. I’m not so good at checking for mail at my place.” That was a lie. She usually ran by her apartment four times a week to get her mail. More when she was expecting it.

Dannie eyed her face. “We could… change your address, you know.”

“Hmm.” They could. That was true. But it wouldn’t just be an address change, would it? It would be an announcement of sorts. “Not yet, I think.”

Dannie watched her for a moment longer. He looked at the floor. Nodded. “Okay. Suit yourself.” He picked up a photograph from the table. Bettie Page. He placed it to the far right. “Oh, hey!” His head shot up, a grin suddenly lighting up his face. “How was the opening night? I’ve been meaning to ask. I’m real sorry I missed it, but I did see the pictures. You’ve got some kind of eye, let me tell you.” 

Therese blinked. Then smiled. “Uh, it was great. A lot of people came out—more than I’d expected.”

“Yeah?” He was holding another picture, his hands drifted over several open spots on the table before settling for one in the far right corner. 

“Yeah.” Therese chewed on the inside of her lip. “Um, hey, Dannie. Could I come with you? Tonight, I mean?”

Dannie looked up at her. Tilted his head. And grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love a good vase and a cluttered antique store.


	14. These Places We Call Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese attends a party but realizes she would rather be anywhere else.

“Um, hey, Dannie. Could I come with you? Tonight, I mean?”

Dannie looked up at her. Tilted his head. And grinned. “You’re kidding, right?”

Therese blinked. “Um.”

“Of _course_ you can come. Wouldn’t wanna go without my wing man.” Dannie tossed the photograph in his hands onto the table. “Belivet, you and I are going to have a night of it. Say, you think you could help me ask out Rosie? You know her, don’t you? Kinda short, red hair—” Dannie chattered on happily. His face lost its darkness, regained that casual smile and easy swing. He was always so… unwound. Like his body was strung together with looser strings than Therese’s. She listened to him run on about this woman, Rosie, and all the many things he liked about her. She couldn’t be sure, but she supposed he did so in part as a way to reassure her. To prove to her that he could be friends—only friends. Could still find space for her in his life… But then, maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe he was over her. Who could really say?

Tom returned, carrying with him the stack of now-inscribed headlines. Dannie’s grin waned ever-so-slightly, but, nodding, he kept hold of his small smile as they worked to select pictures for the day’s issue.

… 

At half passed three, Therese excused herself to the payphone in the lobby of the _Times_ building. She fed the machines a few coins, traced the track of the telephone dial to connect to Carol’s apartment phone. She hoped she’d be home—

“Hello?” Carol’s low voice sounded even moreso through the labyrinth of wires and electricity.

“Carol,” Therese breathed. As if for the first time. _Always_ as if for the first time. Saying Carol’s name never quite felt like speaking so much as singing. 

“Therese? Is everything alright?”

Therese pulled herself from her reverie. “Y-yes. Sorry. I—yes. Everything is just fine. I was just calling to tell you that I will be home late tonight. Dannie and Phil—I don’t remember if I’ve told you about Phil. He is Dannie’s brother. We all used to hang a while back—” Therese trailed off. Too much information. Get to the point. “Anyway, Dannie is going to a party at Phil’s tonight, and I’ve asked to tag along.”

The line offered her nothing but silence in reply. 

“I don’t plan on staying long. Not really. I just figure I should pop in, remind everyone I am alive…” She sucked in a breath. “Dannie had a really, truly awful day today. Some jerk in the department—well, it doesn’t matter. The point is I thought it would be a nice thing to join him. That’s all.”

“I see.” Carol’s tone was too even. Too devoid of ripples or colors to decipher. _I see_? What did she see? _How_ did she see? Therese pursed her lips and scoured her mind for a response.

“Did—” Carol stopped herself. Therese unconsciously straightened her posture. _What_? “Did you want… me to join—”

“Oh. Oh, no. That’s okay. You shouldn’t—”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble—”

“No really. It’s fine.”

Carol was silent again. “Alright.” They stood in silence for a beat, only the sound of each other’s breathing to keep pace of time. “Well. Perhaps some other time, then.”

“Yeah.” Therese tried to keep her voice light. Tried to hold back her mounting confusion. What did Carol want to come to some dumb party for? With people she would inevitably dislike, inevitably find boring. And, how. How would she even… Therese shook her head. As active and nervous a mind as she had, even she couldn’t conjure up the image of _Carol_ walking through the crooked frame of Phil’s doorway, see her sharing a beer with the boys, see her standing by as someone put on a record so the kids could dance. Not that it would be dull, she supposed. The conversations were usually alright. Phil attracted a variety of people in his life, yielding a motley arrangement of subjects when the conversation found its rhythm. Carol would perhaps quite enjoy that part. At least she would be amused. Would stand beside Therese, crossing her arms, and glance over to her every so often with that little twinkle dancing in her eyes…

Therese bit her lip. Oh. Well, maybe not so entirely impossible an idea. She swallowed. “I—” She began. Very nearly began to ask Carol to please drive all the way out here to come to the party. To stand with her and just linger. In a space where, for once, perhaps, they both would be a kind of stranger to the fray. But she stopped. For in that moment of opening her mouth, she could picture one thing: Phil’s face. The faces of his many friends and company. Richard’s face— _oh_ , would Richard be there? 

“Yes?” Carol’s voice crackled through the line, but it sounded drawn. Guarded a little. Hurt, maybe. Therese felt a stab of guilt. Someday. Perhaps someday she wouldn’t ruin everything by being such a coward. Her shame peaked, lapped at her cheeks until she could feel them redden. Her chest seemed to collapse in upon itself in a sweeping ache. Carol. _Carol_.

“N-nothing,” She lied. She gritted her teeth. Squeezed her eyes shut, tightened her fingers around the receiver, and balled up her other fist until her knuckles cracked. She let out a breath. _Say something else. Anything else_. “Um, I just wanted to say good night.”

Carol was quiet for a beat. When her voice finally reached Therese, it was softer, gentler. “Hmm. Thank you.” Therese unballed her fist, brought her hand up to cup her other hand holding the receiver. She pressed the speaker into her ear until it stung. Maybe if she pressed hard enough, she would feel the texture of Carol’s voice. Or feel, instead, the softness of her skin, of her hand, upon her cheek. “Have fun tonight.” Therese released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’ll see you later.” How was her voice like velvet, like a purr, like a—

The line went dead. 

Her arms remained frozen in place, clutching the phone to her ear, pressing the Bakelite into her ear so that her earring backing bit into her neck. She turned her face toward the phone, breathed out. In. Out. When she finally began to uncoil her fingers, to lower her arms, to replace the receiver in its cradle, her skin felt strange. Shaky—but she was still. Clammy—but she was dry. She stared at the phone—a little dark-colored thing. 

Surely the party was a good thing? Surely she should go out, speak to people her own age. Her friends. Or close enough, at any rate. Surely. Hadn’t Carol herself complained about her relationships isolating her so completely? Overtaking her life? She couldn’t want that for Therese. _She doesn’t_. That little voice reminded her. _She just wants to see your side of things_. Therese felt a sharp dig in her stomach, just below her rib line. She took a deep breath. It was fine. It would be fine. It would all be okay. It was just an evening. An evening that Therese would endure, perhaps enjoy, and then she would tell Carol all about it. And someday… Someday she maybe _would_ bring Carol. Maybe. It would be okay. It had to be okay.

Dannie swung around a doorway into the lobby, “I just got word that Al Harper’s coming tonight. Let the games begin, right?” Dannie stopped walking when he saw Therese’s startled face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Therese blinked. “Oh. Oh, yes.” She looked back at the phone receiver, hanging there innocently enough. “I just—I was in my head is all.” She turned back to Dannie and smiled. “Alfred Harper. Really?” She hoped her voice sounded engaged. Light. Unlike her insides.

“Yeah.” Dannie nodded slowly. Somewhat suspiciously. He opened his mouth to say something.

“Did the final photo selections get sent to formatting?” Therese asked, stepping away from the payphone, and leading them back in the direction of their office.

…

Phil’s party was in full swing by the time they arrived. They stepped out of the cab to see through his windows—lights on, music trickling out into the evening, and people. A great many people wandering about, beers in hand, conversations pulling them to and fro. The night was a warm one—the air seemed to hold water, sticking to the skin heavy and dull. Therese blinked her eyes against the pressure of it. She could feel the sweat already preparing to bead up on her skin and gratefully followed Dannie up the stairs to his brother’s apartment. 

The inside wasn’t so much better. Despite the clunky air conditioning unit he had just ordered—Phil’s new pride and joy, according to Dannie—the congestion of bodies held heat, tossed that heat from one person to the next, until it washed over her in a wave. 

Dannie bobbed ahead of her, swerving around bodies and slipping through gaps to give his greetings to favored party guests. Therese drifted. She flowed with the moving tide of people until she reached the kitchen. Releasing a breath, she walked to the refrigerator, pulled at the long silver handle, and took out a beer from within. Her eyes scanned the nearby counters for a bottle opener. 

“This what you’re looking for?” Said a young man leaning against the left side of the refrigerator. He held out the metal-tipped instrument lazily between two fingers. 

“Thank you,” Therese responded, taking the bottle opener from him. She set to the task of accessing her beer.

“Bill,” He tipped his head. Like it was an explanation. Or a statement. 

“Excuse me?” Therese tilted her head, suppressing a smile as his brow wrinkled in return. Playing dumb was sometimes worth the fun of mussing up the social script. Had Abby taught her that? She sucked in her cheeks a little, bit down lightly, willing her face to remain straight. Sincere. Politely engaged. 

“My… name.” His smiled had flagged. His hand, which he had offered her so enthusiastically before, lowered slightly. 

Therese let her smile tinge the corners of her mouth. She straightened her back, and tried her best to conjure up an image of Carol as she would handle this—Carol would swing her head just so. Smile only slightly. Hum out a droll response. And, turn. Walk away.

“Ah. Well. Thank you, _Bill_.” Therese stepped out with her left foot, pivoted, and headed in the direction her body pointed her—toward a nearby and thankfully vacant window nook. Her feet nearly tangled and sent her flying. She had to turn suddenly to avoid plowing through a delicately-set woman upon completing the pivot. It was not a flawless execution. Still. Therese smiled to herself. She settled into the nook, sitting with her knees tucked in toward the window, her skirt dangling off the bench. She looked through the glass out onto the night.

It felt absurd in a way. Being here. Being here again. Her life was such a different thing. She hardly awoke in the same way, dressed in the same way, _thought_ in the same way as before. And while she knew that, to a degree, that was life. What was Dannie always saying about the world turning, people changing? Well, that. People changed. Therese had changed. But, for all the natural process talk she could understand, she felt the shift underneath her skin and beside her bones. Normally, she just flowed with things. She didn’t wonder at the woman beside her in her bed each morning, didn’t question the way her presence had become so familiar, so easy. She just… lived it. Or, anyway, she supposed she did. She knew she’d had a lot of questions. She knew that some part of her didn’t trust her life with Carol—didn’t trust it to last or her to stay or for them to sustain the simple, quiet thrill of their day-to-day life. That seemed impossible. A foolish dream. 

She leaned her head against the windowsill, following the trail of a couple walking along the sidewalk on the street below. A lamp lit their way in a hundred little yellow rays zigzagging in reflection through the cracks of the cement. She was faintly aware of the dull roar of people in the party beside her. She could make out individual peals of laughter, occasional exclamations. The party was a gas. Clearly. 

She closed her eyes briefly, focusing instead on the way the painted wood felt cool against her skin. Willed her focus away from the itching heat and the stiffness of her dress. The loudness of the room. 

She really did prefer their quiet home.

Home. Was that what it really was? Was that how she felt? She supposed so. There were many days where, even in its manicured perfection, Carol’s apartment felt warmer and more familiar than her own space. Even as long as she’d lived there. The white walls lacked the creamy tone. The air felt cold and uninviting. Stale almost, from the stillness, the lack of movement within. 

Then why cling so? Why not move? 

Because it was preposterous. Living with Carol. The idea of it was ridiculous. Living with _Carol. Living_ with Carol. It was such a big thing. Such a huge and incomprehensible thing. She loved her. Surely. But… _but, what?_ But she was twenty-one? But Carol was _not_? But they were… together? It was dangerous. Surely. It was a risk to even walk down the street together nowadays. Anyone they meet as a pair would have to be vetted, or something. Known. Trusted. Surely. But, maybe. Maybe that wasn’t all? Maybe it was something else, too. It occurred to Therese that her apartment, empty and tepid as it may be, was one of the last things that was hers and hers alone. Even if everything else fell apart, she would have a place to call home. And she had never before lived without the expectation that things wouldn’t, indeed, fall apart. And wasn’t that something you needed before you moved in with someone? Before you took that big step? Assurance? Total and complete knowledge that that is the right course of action? 

“Say, Therese, what are you hiding here for?” Dannie’s voice slipped through the cracks of her mind, pulling her from her thoughts. She opened her eyes, turned to him, and smiled. 

“I was just thinking.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. You should have earned a diploma by now.”

Therese tried to smile. She looked around the room now—surveyed the moving clusters of people steeped in joy and laughter. In her little nook, it seemed like a movie she was watching. Or perhaps, more like she stood before a diorama of sorts, a theatre set—the people little puppets, little paper actors on a stage. She could see Rosie over by the refrigerator, talking to Bill. Alfred by the door, staring quizzically at his beer. Richard—she took a deep breath. Richard, staring at some girl. Brunette, like she was. He gazed at her with the same puppy dog expression. That selfless-seeming wanting. It had always made her so exhausted. Like she held the weight of his world—her decisions so heavy with the responsibility of his happiness. She wondered, was that every how Carol felt? Weighed down by Therese’s attention, Therese’s adoration? But, surely. No. Because she loved Therese. 

She _loved_ Therese. 

Therese blinked.

Dannie sat down beside her, startling her again. Her heart had begun to beat very quickly. “You having a good time at least?” He asked—more softly this time. He was worried. Nervous. 

“Yes,” she replied. She wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a lie. She supposed not. She wasn’t unhappy. Not entirely. And now, anyway, who could think of happiness. Who could think of anything but Carol?

He tilted his head. “I’m glad.” He looked down. “Wouldn’t want you forgetting how to have fun with all those fancy parties you go to nowadays.”

Therese shot him a look. “I don’t go to fancy parties.” He raised his brows. “Not many, anyway.” She smiled—a little to herself, a little to him. “If anything, I avoid them as much as any other social gathering.”

“Yeah, why _is_ that?” Dannie was relaxing now, stretching out on the bench. 

Therese smiled. The back of her mind was humming, her heartbeat pulsing. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Do.” 

They sat in silence for a few more moments. Therese glanced back over at Richard. Carol loved her, and she was not like Richard. 

A burst of laughter crashed through the space before her, stumbling into her ears. 

“ _Dannie_ ,” came a breathy laughing boy. He leaned on a friend’s arm. They both clutched beers. 

“Have you _heard_?” His words were punctuated with more laughs, reshaping them. 

Dannie quirked an eyebrow. “Heard what?”

He was pulled back into the throng of moving bodies. Subsumed into it. Therese shifted on her bench. She looked outside once more—at the light, at the air shimmering with heat. At the pavement and its little path. She furrowed her brow at the cement. Why was she here? Why did she come here?

She stood, smoothed her skirt, and began to weave her way through the throng, out of the apartment, out of the building—out, out, into the night.

…

Therese stepped into the apartment, surprised to see a lamp light illuminating the space in yellow tones. It was so late. 

Then, there. On the couch lay Carol, her head leaning against the couch back, her legs curled under her. A book lay open on her lap, her hand having long abandoned it. Her right hand was curled back toward her face, her knuckles barely touching her lips. She breathed so deeply in her sleep. 

The humming in her mind began again. Stronger this time. 

Therese walked toward the couch, slipping out of her shoes along the way. She placed her purse at the far end, sitting just near Carol’s legs. She slid her hand onto Carol’s knee. The blonde woman stirred beneath her hand, but she didn’t wake. Carol only let out a sigh—so quiet, so small. Therese looked at her, traced every shape, every shadow of her face. How could anyone look like she looked? How could she be real? Be solid under her hand?

She took a deep breath, dragging her eyes from the woman to look over the apartment. It was so different in the yellow light.

This place. This room. This home.

The bookshelves now so familiar. The couch so comforting, the walls so welcoming. Sterile no more. It was a home. Her home, perhaps. Could somewhere be a home when it wasn’t really yours? She supposed so. But then, perhaps it was hers. A little. 

She turned her head a little, running down the length of those curtains, that little table, the vase, the—

She stopped. Released her breath. Sitting on the small table Carol kept against the far wall sat the little blue vase with gold details. Her vase. Oh. Of course. She should have known. Have guessed. The blue seemed so much more blue against the cream walls—

Therese laughed lightly. The laughter floated out into the air around her, rounding it, softening it. Her eyes began to prickle, to well with tears. 

Slowly, softly, her laughter turned, became a quiet sob. The room blurred. 

Of course. Of course, how stupid, how selfish could she be?

Carol stirred again. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes blinked open. Her lips upturned in a tired smile at the sight of Therese. She closed her eyes again, pushed herself into an upright position. “How was the party?” Gravel. Rumble. Thunderclouds. 

Therese gasped a laugh, and her tears spilled over. 

Carol blinked, becoming aware of Therese’s tears. She ran a hand over Therese’s arm, her face wrought in concern. With her other hand, she placed her book on the ground and grasped Therese’s clasped hands. “Therese?”

“I’m sorry.” Therese looked hard at the floor, trying furiously to blink the tears from her eyes. It was stupid. This was stupid. She was overreacting. It was just a party, just an evening. Carol understood. 

Didn’t she? 

She had to.

Therese looked up at Carol, “I’m sorry.”

Carol’s eyes skimmed every inch of her face, her brows drawn. “What are you talking about, darling?”

“The party. I’m _sorry_.” Therese squeezed Carol’s hand between her own two hands—so hot they felt like they were burning. Her breath quickened. Her heart felt as if it would split her chest, leap from it toward Carol. Into Carol’s arms. She had been so careless. So preoccupied with appearances and Dannie’s friends and Richard— _Richard_. Her mouth was suddenly very dry, her throat ragged. She was nearly certain she would vomit.

“Therese. _Therese_.” Carol tightened her grip on Therese’s arm and hands, wrenching her into the moment. Like being doused in ice water.

Therese looked at her. Her skin felt… loose. Too loose. And heavy. Like she would melt apart here on the couch, in front of Carol.

“What is going on?” Carol was brusque. Not impatient—not exactly. She was urgent. Concerned in the way Carol got concerned. With an eye toward diagnosis, toward solutions. 

Therese took a deep breath. Willed herself to breath more slowly, think more slowly, speak more slowly. 

“I feel awful.” Simple. So simple. And not remotely at all.

Carol relaxed her grip on Therese. She nodded. “Alright. Why do you feel awful? You’re not sick?” It was less of a question than a clarification.

“No.” _No_. Didn’t she see? Didn’t she know? She had to know. She had to be hurt or disappointed or _something_. “No. I feel awful about the party.” Therese hated that her voice sounded so much like a whine. Why couldn’t she just _talk_?

Carol’s face hardened. Therese felt a thousand flurries spin and somersault through her stomach. “What happened? Did someone do something?” Carol was intently, utterly serious. 

“What?” Therese was… lost. 

“Are you okay,” Carol said more insistently, “What happened at the party?”

“I— _no_. Carol, it was me.” Carol’s face contorted in confusion. “With—to you. I—I should have invited you, I—”

Therese stopped herself. Carol’s face unwound. She looked exasperated, amused, relieved, somewhat happy, quite sad. A corner of her mind wondered when reading Carol’s face had become so easy.

“Therese,” Carol said. Like a breath. Like an apology. Like a plea. Like a chiding.

Therese looked up at her. She felt wilted. A stringless puppet. 

“I’m not mad at you for not inviting me to a party.” It sounded so childish when she spoke about it like that.

Therese watched her face, waiting to catch there the lie that those words must be covering. “But you got me that vase—”

Carol glanced toward the vase. “You liked it, right? You wanted it? And I want you to like this space.”

“But I didn’t—I mean, you wanted to go with me, and—”

“ _Therese_ ,” Carol squeezed her arm gently. “I understand.” She looked at hear of her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth. Her eyes again. “I do.” She nodded, smiling that puzzling, sad little smile.

Therese breathed out. “I just feel like a fool. Just… awful.”

Carol continued to looked over her face. She reached up a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind Therese’s ear. “You don’t need to feel like a fool.”

Therese ran her eyes along the line of Carol’s side, her legs. “Well, I do.”

Carol was silent for a moment. “You know, Therese, we haven’t talked much about this. Perhaps we should have. I don’t know. It’s so… Well, I wouldn’t say the topic is _inviting_.” She waved her had in the air, as if making a concession for herself, for them, for the circumstance. “But it is important. So. Here we are.” Therese watched her. She wasn’t entirely sure where Carol was going with this. “Therese. You know I want you to… oh, have a life. You know that. Don’t you? I just—I sometimes push you to… move. Perhaps faster than you want to.” She looked at the upper ridge of the couch. “I don’t want you to feel… pressured. I know that I am… older than you and that I might want something more…” Her eyes scanned the ceiling briefly, “Oh, _stable_ than you, but, Therese, I don’t want you to think—”

“Carol, I don’t feel pressured. Or. Well, I do, but I’m not _bothered_ by it, I suppose.” She looked at Carol. “I don’t—Oh, how do I say this? I just couldn’t…. I didn’t know how to explain, I think. Us. What we are. To other people. I mean, I didn’t know how to—how I would introduce you or how you would even fit… in the space. Not with all those people there. I just didn’t know how to handle it or what to do…”

Carol looked at her. Nodded slowly. “I see.” Therese felt a thrill run down her arms. “I don’t know… I don’t have answers for you there. I wouldn’t fit in, I suppose.” She seemed so calm suddenly. 

“I mean, what would we _say_? What excuse would—”

“Never make an excuse, darling. You never make an excuse.” Carol tilted her head so that she met Therese’s eyes. “People can talk. They will. They do. But that is their lot. Ours is the living.”

She leaned back, taking a moment to breath in the silence of the room. Therese spent the time looking about—everything seemed less fragile on this side of things. Less precarious. Just quiet.

“I must say, I am curious, though. I would love to see what it’s like in your life for once. You must be tired of me dragging you through mine all the time.”

Therese looked at her. “It’s not really my life anymore. Not really. I realized that tonight. I… I can’t quite explain it. But, it was like it didn’t really fit—my being there, I mean.” She looked down. She felt quite ridiculous all of the sudden. “I’m probably not making any sense.”

“No,” Carol whispered, speaking into the turn of her head as she shook it slowly. “No, I understand completely.”

Therese smiled lightly, looked across the length of the room once more. Her eyes drifted onto the vase. What a little thing. A beautiful little thing. Something familiar. Old and yet also new. Something she’d lost, that had returned—something which was hers. Theirs. 

So important. So unimportant. In the warm light and the quiet air, the little vase seemed incredibly significant somehow. 

Her smile grew a little larger as she took in the sight of it. Such a funny thing, these places we call home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting again. Take this longer chapter as an apology.


	15. Another of Those Islands in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics and paintings, arguments in the lamplight--Carol and Therese have some things to talk through.

“It’s a simple question.”

Carol sighed, tossing her head back to shift her curls away from her face. She picked up her pace walking down the busy sidewalk until Therese practically had to sprint to keep up.

“I’m just curious,” Abby called out, matching Carol’s breakneck speed step for step. “Jane Russel or Marilyn Monroe?”

Carol came to an abrupt stop at a window display featuring handbags arranged neatly upon squat tables. Therese skidded to a halt behind her. She gasped. The day had hardly started and she was already exhausted. 

“It’s just an opinion. I am partial to Jane myself. Though, of course, in the film Marilyn is the crafty one, I suppose. It really was a fine film.” Abby continued talking, keeping her eyes trained on the side of Carol’s head.

Carol’s face was a mask of pleasant nonconcern. She paid Abby’s questions no heed, scanning over the bags in the window absently. Therese usually so admired this habit of Carol, this game of theirs. Carol would ignore Abby’s more errant trails of conversation until the other woman caved in exasperated protest or defeat. In the beginning, it was a delight to see the way Carol would simply opt out of the conversation. It was entertaining to see Abby’s fluster, Carol’s nearly imperceptible smirk at the effect her silence had on Abby. Anymore, however, Therese had become the secondary option for conversation. When her questions found no purchase in Carol’s ears, she would turn to Therese. It was a change she very much disliked. She nearly missed the cold distance she and Abby used to hold between them.

“Well.” Brusque. Resigned. An edge of irritability. “How about you?”

“How about me what?” Across the street, a little girl was attempting to walk a dog twice her size. Therese followed their bounding progress until they passed out of her sightline.

“Jane or Marilyn?”

“Well, I—Abby, I don’t really know either of them. How could I have an opinion on someone I don’t know?”

“Look, I’m not asking you to write them a love letter. I’m just asking—”

Therese looked over at Carol, and the sight of her pulled her mind away from Abby. Carol stood so simply and stared at the bags in the window. Therese could tell from the way her eyes stayed still, from her angle of her lips, from the slight crease of her forehead that she was not thinking of handbags. In the light of that gray day—the air filtered in a cool steel tone under clouds—Carol’s hair seemed almost white. The swell of the curls clung to the thin light, their dips clutched at the shadows. Her makeup, always so masterfully applied, lacked the golden warmth it usually held when illuminated by lamplight or the sun. She seemed waifish almost. Therese peered at her, searched over her. Like so many days, so many moments of looking at Carol, she once more felt herself dipping into, splashing through, submerged within the sight of Carol. 

“Really.” Abby complained to Therese’s left. “Might as well not even bother on these outings. It’s like a damned library with you two.”

Therese wrinkled her brow at her. “A library?”

Abby threw her hands in the air. “Oh, she lives! She hears.” She tilted her head to the side slightly. “A reading room. Silence. Embargo on the speaking.”

Therese nodded slightly. Aha. 

“Never been much welcome in reading rooms,” Abby added absently. She ran a hand through her hair and looked off down the street.

“It’s no wonder why not,” Carol murmured. She turned away from the window at last. “Come. The gallery is this way.”

Abby squinted her eyes into the air beside Carol, but she followed her without a word. Therese bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She could understand Abby’s irritation. It had been her idea to go to the show in the first place—it was just a little thing. A gallery open during the day with an oil exhibit Abby had been meaning to go to. They’d have been there half an hour ago were it not for Carol’s ambling pace. She would stride down the street, notice a window and stop for a few moments. It wasn’t altogether unusual—Carol ran late for things more often than not. But she seemed so distracted of late. Therese couldn’t help but wonder at the woman walking briskly in front of her. What was on her mind? 

…

The gallery was a small thing indeed—hardly more than a drawing room with white-washed walls and linoleum flooring. Large canvases were hung on the walls in some semblance of order. The edges of their frames did not quite match up. Therese could see from the look on Abby’s face that she was unimpressed. Whether that was due to the paintings or the presentation, she didn’t know.

For her part, Therese was enchanted. She didn’t spend much time looking through paintings. On the off chance that she went to an exhibit, it was always photography or film-based works. And even then it was always Dannie who brought her to the latter. 

She walked ahead of the other two women, lingered at various paintings along her course. Behind her, she could hear Abby and Carol’s idle conversation. Kinsey’s new volume on Female Sexuality was coming out. Abby had preordered herself a copy. Carol scoffed at her, but the sound was followed closely by a low, rumbling chuckle. The sound reached around Therese, tugging at her lips, pulling them up into a smile. She could practically feel the sound flutter against her cheeks, settle into her dimples, graze against the corner of her mouth. She sighed, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet. The gallery space held a curious sort of piano music in its air. It pulled Therese along its turns, rocking her slowly to and fro. 

Then, Carol’s hand on her elbow. A jolt, a flurry, a flaming burst on her skin. It was a light touch—barely even contact—but Therese felt it tingling long after Carol had gotten her attention, pulled her hand away, and lead Therese over to a blue painting in a far corner. A ghost of Carol dancing across her skin. A mark. Like a tattoo, but invisible. Imperceptible to anyone beyond herself—and all the more potent for its discretion. How long did such a sensation last? Did they fade? Or did she simply grow accustomed to their tingling thrum? Perhaps her entire body was covered in such ghost touches, such fingerprints of a sort. Therese’s heart beat double-time at the thought—she found she wasn’t at all opposed to it.

…  
“Well. What’s next?” Abby asked, letting her body collide lightly against Carol’s as the three of them exited the gallery. 

Carol swung her head around to look at Therese. Her eyes sparkled. Therese let out a breath, smiled a little smile in return. “Hmm. What _shall_ we do?” She tossed her head back, ushering her hair away from her face and glancing over Therese at Abby. “Have time for a cocktail in that busy schedule of yours?”

Abby squinted through a smile at her in return. “Oh yes. I’m sure I can fit you in somewhere between the lounging and the driving.”

Carol smirked. She turned back to the brunette. “Therese, dear?” A purr, a sonata, a string of pearls in the shape of words. 

Therese dipped her head in a quick nod. “Sure.”

“Marvelous,” Carol murmured in return and headed in the direction of a nearby hotel bar.

Therese watched the familiar determined look cross Carol’s face, solidify there. She had her course; now she would see it through. Abby and Therese merely walked along beside her, throwing out the occasional comment. 

As they neared the hotel, Carol placed her hand on the small of Therese’s back to usher her in the door—Therese saw Abby’s eyebrow quirk quickly, subtly at the gesture. Before she could pass through the doorway or dwell on Abby’s expression, a young man called out to them, stalling their entrance. He approached Therese, a stack of pamphlets clutched in his hand.

“Excuse me, ladies. I was hoping to talk to you briefly about the NAACP—that is, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. We have quite a few important projects in the works right now—”

“We were just heading to dinner. You’ll have to excuse us.” Carol cut across him. Therese glanced at her. Her mouth was drawn in a thin line. What was her problem? She looked so tense all of the sudden. 

The young man’s smile wilted slightly. “I-I see. Well, can I at least leave you with a brochure? Open membership.” He held out a thin, blue slip of pulpy paper. Carol did not move. She simply stared at him with pursed lips. Therese let out a huff of air, stepped forward, and took the paper.

“Thank you,” She responded with what she hoped was a look of encouragement. “Have a good evening.” Carol cleared her throat, and Therese followed the pressure of the older woman’s hand at last, entering the hotel. 

“You should throw that out,” Carol said as they walked through the lobby toward the restaurant area. She signaled for a table with a wave of her hand. Therese folded the brochure into quarters and slipped it into her purse. What was _wrong_ with Carol? 

“I’m keeping it to look over later. I was actually interested in what he had to say.” Carol looked at her for a beat. Therese returned the attention, raising her eyebrows. 

Carol lowered her voice until Therese could barely make out the words amidst the rumble of her tenoroon tones. “It isn’t that I was _disinterested_. It is just that I don’t think this is the time or place for politics.” Her voice was so… strange. Like she was chiding Therese for making a scene. But, also, there was something else. She seemed almost _nervous_. 

Despite herself, irritation bubbled up in her throat. “Well, when exactly _is_ the time?”

Carol looked down at her, startled. Therese so rarely burst out—and never in public. Therese herself mirrored her surprise, but she stilled her face and held Carol’s gaze. It was important, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? 

Abby looked between the two of them. She nodded toward a table, half leading, half fleeing from them. 

“Therese. We’ll continue this discussion later. At home.” Carol’s voice was cool and even. Like metal.

“No, we won’t.” Tears prickled at the eyes of Therese’s eyes. She grit her teeth, willing them to stay put. Her chest felt hot and a quiver ran along the skin of her torso. Carol was so stubborn. So stubborn. Why did she always direct Therese so? She wasn’t a child. She knew things and felt things. She picked up those headlines in her newsroom, saw the things that were happening. Saw the world filling up with pressures until it looked like it would burst. Usually she didn’t say much about it—why didn’t she say much about it?—but she saw. She knew. She lived in the world as much as Carol did. And what’s more—this was important. It was suddenly, inexplicably _crucial_. “We can talk about it now.”

Abby spread her fingers and held out her hands—trying to placate the two women, trying to detangle the tension. “Hey, how about we just get some drinks. Talk about something else for a—”

“Honestly, Therese, I don’t know what’s gotten into you.” Carol was pulling out her cigarette case, pursing her lips as she withdrew a single cigarette. She focused intently on the lighting of it. Therese merely stared at her in return.

“What’s gotten into me is that everything is going to the dogs, and you don’t give a damn.” She could hear her voice rising in pitch, the words tumbling out of her in a frenzy. Carol watched her, eyes wide, a cigarette balanced between her lips, and a match poised for striking. “The DSM says we’re all sociopaths. Read that in an article we just put out. Did you know? Oh, sure. Brand new diagnosis. You talk about Kinsey—What does he know? And McCarthy!—and _Hoover_. Have you even heard the latest on him? Do you care? Wire taps on everything, searching out the slightest hint of… well, you know. Things. Does that matter? If you were in a different profession, he could fire you as soon as look at you for spending time with me. Or Abby. Or—”

“Hmm,” Abby held up her hand, balled up around a clump of the paper napkin she’d been slowing shredding. “That would only work if he even hired women. Which he doesn’t.” She looked over at Therese and added sarcastically, “Wonder what that’s about.” She tossed the napkin onto the table, eyebrows shooting up as it landed upon the wood.

“What I mean,” Therese pressed on—Carol still silent, still monolithic, unmoving, “is that this brochure matters. The stuff it stands for, that is. You hardly even need to read the papers to see all the mad stuff happening these days. It matters. And maybe this organization isn’t life or death for me or you or Abby. Maybe not. But, it might be for someone else.” Her heart was racing. Her mind reeled. She’d never thought about any of this before. Not really. Not strongly. She had cared, but… vaguely. In a way that had never required words. Why, in the face of Carol’s stoicism, did it all come spilling out of her? So suddenly? And at Carol. 

Carol who slowly lowered her hand still holding the match. Carol who simply looked at Therese. _Looked_. 

Therese looked right back. The silence between them rang out.

Finally, after what felt like hours, _hours_ , Carol lowered her eyes. She dipped her head down, lit her match and the cigarette, and proceeded to blow out her smoke away from the other women. Her eyes followed the smoke on its journey upwards.

A waiter arrived, toting a drinks menu. Abby murmured a quiet thanks in return. 

The evening sluggishly lurched forward in a heavy air. Time itself seemed suddenly so exhausted, so thick. Abby clung to the menu. Carol sulked into her cigarette. And Therese spun and spun and spun outward. Into her thoughts. Into her unsettled, unsteady worry.

…

“I do read the papers.”

Therese paused as she placed her purse on the couch. She looked up at Carol who stood before her, who was watching her with an intense, serious gaze.

Therese tumbled over the deluge of thoughts bursting through her mind. “Um… I never, I mean, I didn’t—”

“I do care.” Carol’s voice cut across Therese’s words. They silenced her. Stilled her. “I care a great deal, in fact. More than you seem to notice.” Her arms were crossed over her chest, held snug against her body. Like she was bracing herself. Holding herself up against some predicted onslaught by Therese. Such a funny thing, she thought. So odd to see that magnificent woman braced against… her, of all people. Carol rolled her head on her neck and began to walk toward the end table at the far side of the room. The little table holding up Therese’s vase. Her face was lit only by the lamplight of the room—they’d not yet turned on a proper light from coming home—and the effect was somewhat ghastly. A pattern of warm, illuminated skin dotted with patches of shadows. As she reached into the cigarette box on the table, the shadows shifted and danced around her face. Therese was mesmerized by their journey.

“Don’t forget, Therese,” Carol said, forming words around her cigarette and wrenching Therese’s attention from the top of her cheek to her eyes. “I, too, have lived so much of what you so kindly informed me of. And so much more. I was one of those women paying some god-forsaken fortune to have a man _claiming_ to be a doctor tell me I was sick. To _fix_ me. Shrink my head. I sat in some _fucking_ room, and I was told over and again that I was a pervert. A degenerate. Unfit to see my own child. Until I was cured, at any rate. Or sterilized.” Carol smiled a wry, bloodless smile. Her eyes drifted across the empty space of the room. She shrugged. “And I went. Each week. For Rindy. At least if I’d been deluded enough to believe in their propaganda, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so awful.” She took a long drag from her cigarette and shook her head at the ceiling. Shadows flicked and flickered across her jawline. “I know it is all bullshit. Believe me. I know that these so-called doctors are crackpots, that they’re just following some insane delusion that we’re some… some kind of un-American atrocity. I know that. It is dangerous to live the way we live. I know _that_. I’m not naive. I don’t talk about politics in public _because_ it is dangerous for us. Because if things get _worse_ and one of us were to—” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes were wild. She looked so uncomfortable standing there… Therese listened to the clock beside her ticking on. Her sternum felt electric and chilled.

Finally Carol looked up at her. “I care. I read the papers. I know what is happening, and, like you, I am scared.” She shook her head slowly at Therese. “And I don’t need you lecturing me on any of it.” She lifted her cigarette to her lips again, her hands shaking, her eyes not leaving Therese. The trickle of smoke from the burning end came out in a zigzag. 

They let the air sit for some moments. Therese stepped around the couch so that she was a few feet from Carol.

“I’m sorry,” Therese said at last. “I shouldn’t have been so… quick, or… or aggressive. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

Carol nodded slowly. “I know.” She smiled a little. “That too, I know.”

Therese moved a little closer. Carol watched her draw near before she let her eyes drop to the floor. 

“I don’t want to lose you.” It was barely a whisper. Barely a spoken word. Carol glanced up, a sad smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. 

“You won’t.” And in those two little words, Therese tried desperately to say a thousand things. A hundred apologies. A hundred assurances. Declarations. Exclamations. Packed in two words, packed to the brim. “You won’t.”

Carol released a sigh, bringing a hand up to cup Therese’s face. She looked at her. _Looked at her_. And, in all the wild and weary haze of the moment, she began to laugh. Just quietly. Only a little. More like gusts of breath strung into a laugh than anything else. But those little, quiet laughs reached right into Therese, cradled her heart in their hands, and held her.

Carol cleared her throat, sniffed, and pulled back. She ran a hand down the front of her dress, smoothing the skirt. “Well,” She smiled. “Now that we have that cleared up…”

Therese took a step back, but she continued to watch Carol, to make sure she was alright. 

“I was hoping…” Carol’s words tripped over one another on their way out into the air. She paused. Collected them up. And tried again. “I was _wondering_ how you might feel about Rindy coming this weekend to visit.”

Therese felt her brows draw together. Rindy? Here? But, Harge—“Oh. Did… Did you want me to be gone for the afternoon? I can see if Dannie is free or—”

“I don’t want you to leave.” Carol spoke with such calm, such patience, Therese could hardly believe she was the same woman as a few minutes before. “I want you here. You, me, and Rindy. I—I want you to know her.”

Therese blinked. Wow. Oh. Okay.

Carol watched her process the information before she jumped in, attempting to explain it further. “You’re a part of my life, too, Therese. And I think it only makes sense that she gets to know—”

“Yes.” So small a word. So short a sound.

Carol stopped. Pursed her lips. Drew her brows in seriousness. “You are sure?”

“I would love to join you two. Of course. _Of course_ , Carol.” Therese’s heart leapt, cantered, raced. 

A brilliant smile came over Carol’s face, unfurling its tenseness. “Wonderful,” she whispered—merely whispered—in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Politics enter the world of PoS. Or rather, they float into the frame of things. It makes a lot of sense--given their money, their insularity, and their creator--that Therese and Carol probably remained a little uninvolved in civil rights movements. However, it also makes sense to me that Therese would feel herself pulled into the course of things with her new job, her new exposure, and her new journey in coming to terms with herself and her life with Carol.


	16. And It Was Swell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rindy joins Carol and Therese for a quiet evening in.

Therese walked back and forth across the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Her forefinger rubbed little circles into the back of her other hand—little attempts at soothing, little vain, impossible, inadequate—

She heard Carol putting things away out in the living room. The rustling sounds and gentle thumps of shifted furniture, relocated shoes, stacked books was at once comforting and startling. Each miniscule sound sent a jolt through her sternum, a shock along her collarbone. Rindy. Rindy Rindy Rindy Rindy. 

She took a deep breath. 

Therese wasn’t sure to expect. How could she be sure? There were so many unknowns in such a situation. Would the little girl like her? Would she understand? Should she understand? And if she didn’t? How would Harge handle dropping her off? Would Therese hide in the kitchen until he was gone…

So many variables. 

Rindy. Therese hadn’t seen Rindy in a long while. Not counting the last time Harge had brought her to the apartment, that is. The little girl’s face—her haughty eyes and stern expression—blended so softly into Carol’s own features that she couldn’t be sure she even recalled her face quite. Perhaps it was just a trick of memory. A trick of catching hold of Carol’s features and not letting go—keeping them clutched in her mind’s eye so that they overlapped Rindy’s own.

Or perhaps Rindy did look the way she remembered—like a miniature Carol. A spitting image. How could she stand staring into two pairs of Carol’s eyes, surviving under two gazes, two sets of attention. 

Her palms began to sweat.

She had never been very good with children. Not even when she was one. She was always too quiet, too awkward. She took too long to respond to statements. From a young age, her mind had been her place of comfort. In solitude and in the quiet, she could think through a great many things and imagine everything else. She would spend days sitting in her room, staring out a window—watching and not watching the world outside. Her mind had always leapt and cantered and sped along far beyond her lips, beyond their steady gait. She wasn’t entirely sure that anything really had changed in that department. 

But children… children talked, didn’t they? They ran and laughed and trilled their way through the world. They danced. Therese did not dance. Movement often felt as foreign to her as speech, like life rushing at you too quickly, too unpredictably. She was a still sort of body. She watched the movement, captured it in her camera. Life was easier that way. Or, if not easier… something. Steadier. Calmer. More digestible. 

She tapped out an erratic rhythm with her forefinger onto her hand. One two. One-two-three-four. One. One two three. If only she knew Morse code. Her lips quirked. 

Gentle footsteps grew louder—Carol coming to the kitchen. To retrieve her, no doubt. Therese unwound her hands, draping the right one over the surface of the countertop. The cool material welcomed her. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sink into the cool smoothness of the countertop—

“It will be fine.” Therese opened her eyes to Carol, leaning against the doorframe. She felt a sweeping sensation run around her stomach. Déjà vu. Or something like it. And nerves. Jolting, thrilling, petrifying nerves. 

Her lips turned up a little—an attempt at a smile. Her mouth caught hold of sound bubbling up from her throat, but her tongue, her teeth offered no help in sculpting words. Instead, a quiet hum slipped through her lips into the air. 

Carol peered at her. There really was no other word for it. Peered. She was peering: Her eyes slightly tensed. Her mouth ghosted with some unreadable emotion. She poured over Therese, and Therese felt awash. Awash and swept and short of breath. 

The intercom buzzed in the room beyond. Carol’s mouth broke into a smile. She shook her head at the sound, and turned to answer its call.

Therese lingered in the kitchen for a while longer. From there, she trained her eyes on the cream doorway and listened. She listed to Carol answer the intercom, murmur a slight greeting, and buzz Harge and Rindy up to the apartment. She listened as the footsteps approaching the apartment grew out of the sound, grew louder, more concrete. And as the door opened… As Rindy chirped out a greeting—something so full of joy and light. As Harge grunted a hello…

Therese took a deep breath. Well. Here we were again. Only, this time, she wasn’t a surprise. Right? He knew she would be there? 

She felt her neck tense, her muscles screaming at her not to move, not to enter the room, as she began to walk into the living room.

“I’ll pick her up in a few hours. 8 o’clock or so,” Harge was saying. His back was to her. Well that was something. Even from behind she could read his discomfort. He hunched in his trench coat, clinging to his hat in one hand. He kept glancing from Rindy to the door and back again. 

As Therese stepped into the space, Rindy’s eyes zeroed in on her. That Carol gaze in miniature. Her head tilted slightly, but she didn’t look surprised. Good. So she knew. Something, anyway. Harge followed his daughter’s attention, turning to see Therese. His face reddened. His mouth thinned. Therese swallowed hard, but she willed her face into something she hoped resembled a welcoming demeanor. She wondered what he had said to Rindy about them… 

…

Therese pulled the record out of its sleeve, lingering on the rough edges of the thin cardboard, the ridged vinyl. Behind her, she could hear Carol murmuring quietly to Rindy. They were seated at the coffeetable, coloring. Carol bent over the paper, delicately running a crayon over the spaces between the lines—the colors came out so pale. Therese had begged off for the moment. Dinner had been a fine event—Rindy had enough to talk to her mother about. School events and life details that she needed to catch her up on. Therese didn’t fit into such conversations. She could only listen—something she was happy to do, surely. But, now. Now that they were gathered around the little table, now that Rindy had quieted, she knew Carol would hope for her to bond with Rindy. Talk to her. Interact. Therese did not know the first thing about interacting with a child. She’d tried preparing earlier that day… a laughable endeavor that resulted in only further panic. Part of her had hoped that conversations would just… flow. That they would click and things would be nature. Perhaps that some long-dormant maternal instinct buried deep would awaken, and she would just _know_ what to do. How did people just _know?_

But that had not happened. Instead, she kept catching Rindy’s eyes, kept getting caught _in_ her eyes—the same water-gray stare of her mother’s. Only, Rindy’s was more terrifying. More startling. Rindy looked at her with vague, bored anticipation. Like she was waiting for Therese to do something, say something… Which, she supposed, she probably was. The curiosity written all over her expression told Therese that Rindy was as unconvinced of their future friendship as Therese herself was. It told her that Rindy, too, did not quite know what to do with her, did not quite know why she was here. It also told her that Rindy knew full well that she was not simply her mother’s friend. It was terrifying. How could the eyes of a child be so terrifying? Weren’t they supposed to be ignorant? Innocent?

She placed the record on the turntable, switching on the power and dropping the needle along the outer ridge. Crackling static greeted her. Then, a woman’s voice: 

_There’s a saying old, says that love is blind_  
_Still we’re often told, seek and ye shall find_

Therese closed her eyes. This one was one of her favorites. Carol said she’d gotten it a few years before—found it in a window display as she was heading to meet Abby. Like with many of her other records, she hadn’t known much of the artist or cared much about Gershwin at all. It was this song title, she’d told her. Something about the title and the way the advertising poster of Ella Fitzgerald looking up into the distance, poised, hopeful… a little lonely, perhaps—all from behind the pane of glass that had drawn her to buy it. Therese had played it so many times since—in her former house and here. In the evenings to fill the air and the space with that swell of strings and light melody. There was a comfort there in those familiar and sweeping sounds. 

“Ah. Of course.” Carol’s low voice carried along the lines of the record’s music over to Therese. 

Therese smiled a little and headed back to the coffeetable. She was sorry to leave the record player, to leave the safety of a task that kept her away from the demanding and curious and daring eyes of Rindy. But, perhaps having the music float through the air was something, was enough. 

_There’s a somebody I’m longing to see_  
_I hope that he turns out to be_  
_Someone who’ll watch over me_

Rindy was coloring a picture of a car. A Cadillac by the look of it. She focused in on the shapes and her grip on the crayon, intent. Therese tried to sit as quietly as she could. 

“Good choice,” Carol said, looking up at her with that puzzling smile. She could write essays on that smile. 

“Well. I love it,” she returned with a shrug. Offhand. Like it was nothing. Like an explanation that would wave off the security she felt from the song, the ease of it in the air. Carol knew, had to know. Her lips, her smile widened. She knew.

“I want a yellow one,” Rindy announced. Therese glanced at her, seeing the girl’s eyes firmly glued on her mother. 

“Here you are, sweetheart.” Carol handed her the crayon. She answered her so easily. So smoothly. Therese felt her insides squirm. It just didn’t fit her. Perhaps it never would. And what then? What if she never fell in with Rindy?

Rindy frowned down at the crayon. “No. Not… yellow. Darker yellow. Like…” She struggled to find the right words. Therese scanned the array of colored wax scattered about on the table. So many options. She vaguely remembered coloring when she was little, but she was fairly certain she’d only had five or so colors…

She spotted a darker yellowish one. Gold ochre. “Like this?” She offered it to Rindy. 

Rindy looked at the crayon. Then at Therese. Her lips pursed, and she carefully accepted it between two fingers. Therese felt a swooping unease rush through her chest. Oh to know what was going through Rindy’s mind.

“Thank you.”

Therese blinked. The gesture was a quiet one. Rindy’s eyes were focused on her drawing again. Were it not for context and the brief break between songs, Therese might not have heard her, might not have known that she spoke to her. 

She looked up, catching Carol’s eyes. The older woman tilted her head, squinted just slightly. 

Piano notes sprung through the air, bouncing against the light of the table lamps.

_My one and only_  
_What am I gonna do if you turn me down_  
_When I’m so crazy over you_

Carol smiled then. Just the corner of her lips quirked upward. Just a little. She shifted a crayon between her fingers and return to running it lightly against the pulpy surface of the paper. Therese could hear her humming quietly, almost under her breath. Beside her, Rindy turned her coloring sheet over, drawing a series of shapes on the blank space of the back. 

It was wild—how had she gotten here? She had asked herself that question so many times, it was practically written on the insides of her eyelids. But, all the same. The sensation persisted. That bewildered amazement that flooded her mind, her body, her world each time she stopped and thought about where they were. Where she was.

She hadn’t even wanted to work at Frankenburg’s that day, so long ago. She’d awoken to the cold apartment, clutched her blanket firmly in hand, and willed the earth to stop moving. Willed her fortunes to abruptly change—for anything, _anything_ , to grasp her life in its hands, to shake her out of herself. She supposed, in a way, such a thing had occurred. It had come in a mink coat and it had left its gloves on her counter. 

Those gloves. Those terrifying, wonderful, bewildering gloves. Her heart had _raced_ when she’d tucked them into her locker, when she’d carried them home. She was certain they would sear her purse, burn their way through her bag and fall onto the street—maybe burn that, too. Burn all the way to China. The other side of the world. Or beyond. 

She’d been so surprised to see them laying demurely right where she’d left them, in her bag. And then there was the letter—oh, she felt dizzy. Her heart raced, the pulse beat—through her hands, through right down to her fingertips pressed so intently against a little red crayon. Red like Carol. She breathed out a gust of breath. 

So much of this now hadn’t even occurred to her as a possibility. She hadn’t planned on this adventure when she’d mailed the gloves, when she’d follow Carol’s directions to that restaurant for that lunch…

_So my one and only_  
_There isn’t a reason why you should turn me down_  
_When I’m so crazy over you_

_To show affection in your direction_  
_You know I’m fit and able_  
_I more than merely love you sincerely_  
_My cards are on the table_

And now. Now things were, in some ways, so easy. So, so easy. And simple. Of course the world wasn’t. Of course the world was awful. Things were mad. Downright mad. But… they were also simple. Sometimes, anyway. Now, for instance. She smiled to herself, glancing up at the two blondes sitting across from her wearing matching expressions of concentration. So serious they were. So intent. Yes. It was sometimes simple. This was sometimes simple. She would get used to Rindy. She would have the opportunity to get used to Rindy. And Rindy her. Her heart hummed. Her skin raced with electric thrills. Was this what a family was like? Was this a kind of life? A way of living? Had she found herself in the thick of it? 

“Can I use that?” Rindy was asking her. Therese opened her mouth, pulled her thoughts together, and handed the girl the crayon. 

“Ye-yeah. Here.”

Rindy took it. There was no thank you this time, but neither was there that piercing gaze. After a moment, she stopped coloring, wiped a hand across the surface of the paper, and held it up to Therese. 

“There.” 

A cluster of people—triangular shapes. A little girl, a woman with yellow hair. A woman with brown hair. All standing together inside a red box, big enough for three.

_Oh I feel that I could melt_  
_Into heaven I’m hurled_

…

The rest of the evening passed much the same. Carol doted on Rindy, praising her scribbles and her markings. Rindy preened a little under the attention, but she held out her cool front. Therese couldn’t be sure whether the attitude was a caution against her, a resistance to Carol, or something else. The girl was a puzzle she’d not yet cracked. Somehow, as the evening progressed, however, Therese found herself feeling less on edge about the puzzle of a girl. She didn’t love Rindy. Not yet anyway. They were still strangers. But, though they made little sense to each other, they seemed to have an… understanding of sorts.

Whatever she knew or understood, whatever Harge had told her or not told her, she seemed to understand that Therese was there for her mother, was making her mother happier. It seemed just enough to placate her at the very least. 

Therese glanced at the clock, and back over to the couch where Carol was reading to a now dozing Rindy. It was almost eight—nearing when Harge would come and take the girl away. From her spot on the floor, Therese could see, under the softness of Carol’s face, lines of fatigue. Predicting the coming separation. Rindy, on the other hand, seemed entirely relaxed. Her head rested against Carol’s shoulder, her eyes drooped. Carol had an arm draped around her shoulders, ran her thumb in small circles on the back of her forearm. 

The intercom buzzed. It seemed harsher now. More intrusive—shrieking into the quiet space with its grinding metallic tones. Rindy’s eyes fluttered open. Therese jumped up to let Harge up, waving Carol back as she did so. 

Carol threaded her arms around Rindy, propping her up. She murmured to her—goodbyes, a wake up, last minute comments—something. Therese couldn’t hear her. 

A knock on the door. Carol sighed. 

“Let me,” she said to Therese, extricating herself from her daughter. She walked over to the door, opening it to reveal Harge. 

He looked tired. His hat was once again clutched in hand. He smiled a strained, thin smile at Carol as he stepped over the threshold. 

“She was alright?” Harge asked Carol. His eyes ran over the room, lingered on Therese.

Therese’s eyes tensed. 

“She was an angel.” Carol replied. Her voice was so tired, so final. He seemed to take the hint. Clearing his throat, he shifted and walked over to Rindy. 

“Ready, kid?” Rindy nodded sleepily up at him, sliding off the couch cushions and heading over to her coat. 

Carol followed her, helping her with the sleeves—Rindy allowed her to fuss. Therese very nearly laughed at the exasperated care on her face. What a peculiar child. 

“Well.” Harge looked at Carol.

Carol ran her hand through Rindy’s hair. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Have a good week, okay? Give mommy a kiss.” 

When she pulled back, she straightened her body, crossed her arms. She was a pillar. 

“So,” Harge said.

Carol tilted her head. Smoothly—almost lazily, she walked over to Therese, stopping beside her. 

“Goodbye.” Rindy’s voice once again took Therese by surprise. It was devoid of any strong emotion. She sounded almost… obligated to say it. But, she did say it.

“Goodbye—have a good night. Sleep well.” Therese offered in return. Rindy simply stared back at her before turning away toward the door. 

Therese felt Carol’s hand run down her arm. She looked up—right in to the eyes of Harge. He frowned, tensed his jaw, took in a deep breath.

And forced his attention back onto Carol’s face. “Again next week? Same time?” Therese couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like Harge didn’t quite meet her eyes.

Carol nodded. “That works for me.”

“Right.” The air was stiff and starched.

Carol looked back at him and said nothing. 

“Well. I suppose we had best be off.” 

Harge ducked his head as he donned his hat. He shrugged his coat and opened the doors to leave. Rindy turned back for one last wave—Carol returned it with a smile. Therese, too, lifted a hand in goodbye. Harge’s eyes swept over them briefly one last time, before he drew closed the door and led Rindy out of the apartment.

The room was suddenly so entirely quiet. 

“Put on that music—the one you were playing earlier—and help me take in these glasses?” She gathered the crayons and paper left on the coffee table, and placed them in their drawer. The children’s book returned to its spot on the bookshelf. Therese walked over to the record player and replaced the needle. 

The familiar tunes filled the air as Therese followed Carol into the kitchen with their water glasses.

…

“Rindy seemed well.” Therese looked up from the floor where she had been tracing shapes in the square linoleum. Carol was speaking into the air—to her, she supposed. But also, perhaps, to no one in a way. “I never… _quite_ know what to expect anymore. You know, with Harge not approving of us.” She twisted a towel over one of her newly washed glasses. “I suppose I’m afraid she’ll disapprove.” She put the glass down, sighing. “That’s foolish, I suppose. Fearing a child.”

Therese ran her hand along the edge of the counter, leaning her body against the spot her hand just passed. “I don’t think so.” She looked out the little kitchen window of the apartment. The sky was purplish melting into blue. Those last rays of the sun still seeping into the sky, still asserting their warm hues. “I was nervous. About Rindy. About her liking me.” She looked over at Carol. The older woman was smiling down at the remaining glasses, a small smile on her face. “I’m not very… good with children. Or, anyway, I don’t know anything about them… She just seemed so distant.” 

“You did fine.” Carol responded. Her voice was so gentle. Not patronizing. Just… gentle. “I actually think she took quite a shine to you. It was impressive.”

Therese smiled at the wall behind Carol’s head.

“I had fun.”

“I’m glad.” Carol picked up another glass and frowned down at it as she began to dry it. “You know, Rindy has always been that way. Withdrawn, I mean. Quiet. Harge used to blame me for it. For not being, I don’t know, a good enough mother. For not wanting to be part of a perfect fake family, or—. I don’t know. I suppose that is why the doctors wanted her to take her away from me. Because it was all my fault.” She put the glass down on the counter hard. The cold thud of its base hitting the surface made Therese blink.

The thud seemed to ring out. Like its beat reverberated throughout the room, hitting the walls, and washing over the two women. The cool air vibrated. Thrummed in a pale way. Therese looked at Carol’s face, her neck, her hands so hard—trying, willing her concern and support to sink into her skin.

“But it wasn’t. Isn’t,” she said at last.

Carol let out a breath. “No. It isn’t.” She turned to leave the kitchen, touching Therese lightly on the arm—an invitation to follow.

Therese steeled herself, began to follow and, heart racing, opted to add, “And you are a great mother.”

Carol smiled, lingered in the threshold—a hand on the doorway. It was a sad smile. She released a little huff of air. A scoff. She disappeared into the living room.

Therese quickened her pace. Carol hadn’t scolded her, hadn’t bit back. The response, that mere disbelief, fortified her. Pushed her to continue. “You are. Rindy adores you. You should see her face when she first walked in—or, you should see it from an outside perspective.”

Carol had stopped walking. She stood still in the center of the living room, just before the couch, facing away from Therese. 

“I don’t know much about perfect families—fake or otherwise. You know. My situation was… complicated. But, even though I may not have much experience—I can see it. You can feel it. You and Rindy… and… I suppose, me. Maybe.” Therese faltered. So tentative. So nervous. So unsure. It was ridiculous. She should have gotten over all this by now! How many days, how many weeks would it take for her to get over this?

She watched Carol closely. Carol had turned back, just slightly—her eyes looking at the ground to her left. Therese took a deep breath. Swallowed. And continued. “I—I liked it. This evening. You and me and Rindy. I liked the feeling of the family thing. Us just sitting together. It was… nice. It was strange, too. I’ll admit. I didn’t know what to do or say or how I fit into the picture. But, I think… maybe, with practice, I could get used to it. To this feeling. Maybe?” It was a question. It was a proposition of sorts, she supposed. She took a few steps closer to Carol and listened to her breathing. Watched her wrinkled brow tell the story of her processing. Therese willed herself to be patient. 

“I’ve, um. I’ve been thinking, you know. About us. About the things that you want… About us living together. I think… I guess I’d not wanted to… yet.” Her heart started to race. Was she talking faster? She felt like she was talking faster. “But, I was thinking about us the other day. And I—I think we should try it. I mean, why not? Right? I’m here all the time. I hardly stop by my apartment at all anymore. And, anyway—”

Carol turned around, took Therese’s face in her hands, and kissed her. 

Her lips happily took the request to stop talking. Piano notes trickled through the air. A tonal change ushered in the new song.

Ella hummed out over a deeper tone. _Ooh, I’ve got a crush on someone. Guess who?_

Therese let her hands fall to Carol’s hips. She let her mind wander and buzz with pleasure at the impossible smoothness of Carol’s lips. The impossible warmth of her hands on her cheeks. The impossible softness of her body against Therese’s own.

_I’ve got a crush on you, sweetie pie_  
_All the day and nighttime give me sign_

Therese smiled against Carol’s mouth as she recognized the song. Slowly, she pulled back from the kiss. Carol’s cheeks were flushed in the lamplight. Her breathing slightly labored. Therese lifted a hand to push hair back from Carol’s face. Her eyes ran the length of her face, her neck. 

_I never had the least notion_  
_That I could fall with so much emotion_

Carol stared at her. Her eyes seemed endless. Burning. Her typical intensity—a bundle of questions and requests tangled up in that one gaze. Drawn in lines of bewilderment and that slight edge of fear.

_But you had such persistence,_  
_You wore down my resistance_

Therese held her gaze. Her fingers slipped in between Carol’s sweater and her belt on either side of her body. Carol breathed out, lifted a hand to lay it against Therese’s neck. She pulled at the sweater, drawing it out of the belt and her skirt. Her fingertips grazed the smooth fabric of the girdle beneath it. As if on cue, Carol shivered. A plucked string.

_I fell. And it was swell._

Therese pulled the sweater up, ushering it around Carol’s head. She traced the edges of the girdle. Above it, there was a thin line of skin—only a little space between the end of the girdle and the beginning of her bra. Therese let her thumb stroke the skin there, watched Carol arch her back at the touch. She had always had such excellent posture, such beautiful form. 

_Could you coo, could you care?_  
_For a cunning cottage_  
_That we could share_

Therese let her hand slip around Carol’s waist, to draw her closer. To hold her for what now seemed like an eternity stretched out in front of them. And Carol:

Carol met her pull, met her touch—curled around her and engulfed her like so much smoke. Like so much perfume. Vaporous and strong and intent—

_The world will pardon my much_  
_‘Cause I have got a crush, my baby, on you…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like it has been forever. I've finally crawled out from under my mountain of work to bring this quiet thing to you. I hope it holds up against the wait. 
> 
> I still have vignette ideas, and I will writing them where and when I can. That said, I don't know how often I'll be posting, so please bear with my inconsistency.
> 
> For anyone interested, the album Therese is listening to is Ella Fitzgerald's 1950's _Ella Sings Gershwin_ album. It's phenomenal.


	17. One Gets Over Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese preps for her move.

…  
 _Therese, be a dear. Dear. Darling Dear. Would you be a dear? Be a dear, would you? Therese, really. Be a_

_Dear._

_Would you?_

The sounds fluttered against Therese’s ears as her eyes slowly opened. Slowly. Like they were shutters or blinds being pulled, drawn. But, no. Fluttered wasn’t right. Fluttered was far too soft. Fluttered sounded kind and gentle. Whimsical almost. No, the cacophony of voices—one voice, really—beat flatly against Therese’s eardrums. Flatly and loudly. A slow, flat thud.

_Be a dear WOULD YOU BE A DEAR WOULD YOU DARLING THERESE DEAR BE A_

Therese looked around her. Her pulse began to quicken, and she felt a panic rising up the line of her throat. 

Carol. Carol was there. Sitting. The sight of her filled Therese’s eyes. A dream? Was it another dream? Carol turned toward her, locking eyes. As suddenly as their gazes met, so, too, did the chorus of noises cease. Everything was an eerie, gray silence. 

Carol breathed in. The sound met Therese. She could feel the pull of the air, the way it seemed to move by her body to meet Carol’s face. How? What—

Carol cleared her throat. Therese looked at Carol’s throat.

“I don’t feel like traveling anymore.” Carol blinked in a blink that punctuated the remark.

Therese opened her mouth to answer. Wrinkled her brow. Closed her mouth again. Oh. What? They weren’t travelling. Were they? They’d gotten back. Months ago. Or, more properly, Therese had gotten back months ago. Carol had rushed away in a flurry of unease and panic and silence. And she had hurt. Therese’s eyes grazed over the room, her vision hazed slightly as if by a veil of memory. She had hurt. Both of them had hurt, she supposed. But Therese had been so hurt. Beaten. She could remember waking up the second day of Abby driving her home. Her chest had felt so empty, so aching that she was sure it would cave inward. That she would fold in on herself. A paper doll. So easily torn. She’d always prided herself on some semblance of strength, but, in that week of driving back without Carol, she was so suddenly sure she would never survive the world. How could one live in such a world? In such a Carolless life?

“Let’s go out to the house. It’s pretty there.”

Therese looked back at Carol. The older woman was staring off to the left. Absentmindedly toying with a lock of her hair. The gesture was so strange on her. Less like Carol, more like… Rindy. Her posture, too—knees drawn together, back perfectly erect, almost as if she were made of porcelain. Like a doll. Her eyes shifted back to Therese. A chill ran down Therese’s spine. This was not right. Something was not right.

“If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a hypocrite.” Carol’s voice had a hollowness to it. Like the edges of her words bled outward, spilling in an almost-echo. They seeped into the floor, the walls, the ceiling—the breathy release of “hypocrite” seemed to stretch out, to reach out toward Therese.

Therese blinked. Was Carol talking to her? Were they talking? What was happening? The words were coming toward her so slowly. Or was that her mind? Reeling to keep pace with the conversation, with time. 

“I… I’m sorry, Carol. I don’t.—”

“It’s all over.” 

A chill was creeping over her shoulders. Her skin prickled and raised into goosebumps. The air in the room seemed to leak color, seemed to take on a grayish overtone. The shadows that so frequently lay in the corners of the space seemed to crawl, to reach forward. The light fell from the ceiling, from behind her head, washing over Carol. Like a theatre set. Like they were in a play. But, of course, they were not in a play. They were not actors. They were… what were they? Friends? But, more… Lovers? Family? Therese’s eye began to twitch.

“I was hoping you might like to come and live with me, but I guess you won’t.” Carol was looking off to the side. Therese’s mouth fell open. No. No, they had gotten past this. She remembered getting past this. They were fine. They were doing well. Were moving past this. She was sure of it… 

She sputtered. “N-no, Carol, I—”

“You’re a very pretty girl. And very sensitive, too, aren’t you?” Carol’s voice was empty and cool and smooth as an eggshell.

“I—” Terror welled, mounted, peaked. What was going on? Her dreams were always slow affairs. Molasses nightmares. Filled with strange and awful things. But they never beat or tore at her so. They never rushed by her, swiping mercilessly. Therese felt her mouth hanging open, her breath gushing out in hatched gasps. What was going on? 

“Did you tell Richard we might go on a trip?” Carol wiped her nails on her knees.

Was that a ringing sound? There—laying in between the words Carol was saying? Therese felt herself pulled in so many directions. She was sure her skin would not stand it, that her body could not hold together under such pressure. Such pull. Richard. Richard? Who? She recalled some vague shape of shoulders, broad and square. Like a detective novel. Some pulpy thing—a shadowy outline of a P.I. hunting down scraps of a mystery. Richard. Richard. 

Shadows stretched together in the corner. A broad square. A round head. Some hulking form. Therese wanted to look at it, to understand why it was growing there. Standing there—could it stand? What was it made of? How had it gotten there? 

Carol’s voice pulled her back. “Do you always want to know where things come from?”

Therese dragged her eyes back toward the woman. She felt herself nodding in answer. “Yes.” Her voice was so small. Had it always been so small?

Carol moved her arm up, toward her body, and raised her shoulder—her chin came to a rest upon her knuckles. A ghostly, eerie smile played around her lips—seeming to pull at them. It was not a kind look, not a kind smile. Therese recalled the warmth of a smile so like this—and so unlike it at once—just when she’d entered the Oak room. When she’d caught Carol’s eye, and they had begun to begin again… Her throat a little like Carol had scraped out the inside with a silver spoon, perhaps eaten the red bits therein. This was not that smile. This was not warmth. This was… something else. Carol squinted at Therese, only slightly. And hummed. 

“Well,” Her low voice rumbled out slowly, “You know. One gets over things.”

The ringing reached a higher pitch, piercing Therese’s ears. She gasped, shutting her eyes against the sonic onslaught, digging her fingers into her hair, pressing her palms against her ears to keep it out—keep it out keep it out keep it out keep it out keep it out….

 

Therese’s eyes shot open to a plane of brown cardboard and clear packing tape. Her back ached in immediate protest as she struggled to raise herself from her crouched position. She was sitting on the floor, her torso slung over a nearby box. Asleep. She had fallen asleep. She blinked a few times, wincing as a headache roared through her head in a wave. So strange. She had been talking to… Carol? But not talking exactly? She scowled. Why was it that dreams raced away from you after assaulting you so violently in your sleep? 

Three short raps on the door cut through her frustration. “Therese? You in there? Hello?”

Dannie. Therese fumbled with her limbs in a rush to raise herself to her feet. Again, she winced. Her body was decidedly doing her no favors today.

She tripped over her own feet approaching the door. She twisted the metal handle and pulled the door in with a scowl down at herself. Catching Dannie’s eyes as she looked up, she noticed his alarmed expression. “Did I do something wrong? I thought you asked me to come help you—”

Therese wrinkled her brow for a moment of confusion, then shook her head at him and stepped back to invite him into the apartment. “No. Sorry. I, uh, I just fell asleep is all.” She glanced over the apartment filled with scattered boxes and half-packed things. “I had a really bizarre dream… or, something. I’m just… a little out of it, I suppose.”

Dannie’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer. Therese could feel them on her like fingerprints. She cleared her throat, ducked her head, and stepped aside to let him in.

 

…  
“You know, you hardly own a thing.” The grating crank of the tape dislocating from its reel shot through the air. Dannie smoothed the adhesive strip across the flaps of the cardboard box, securing them down. “Why is that?”

Therese dropped another box at his feet. She let out a breath. The “hardly a thing” still felt like plenty at the end of the day. She glanced over the room in its semi-collapsed state. Her insides hadn’t quite settled yet, her mind hadn’t quite caught up. She watched the move’s slow progression with vague amazement and a heavy dose of detachment. Wasn’t she supposed to _feel_ something? Excitement or fear or anxiety or… _something?_ Instead, she just let the event of it all play out. So strange. So odd. 

“Therese?” Dannie tapped on the box in front of him with two fingers. “Listen. You want my help lugging this stuff, you gotta listen to my crap.” 

Therese smiled. “Sorry. In my head again. It’s all a little overwhelming.”

Dannie nodded back at her. He picked at a spot on the corner of the box where the cardboards edges was worn, fuzzing slightly. “You never told me what inspired this whole thing.”

Therese hummed slightly, lazily walking around a stack of books and coming to a seat on one of her kitchen chairs—a creaking thing made of rough aluminum. She wouldn’t miss it after the move. 

“Things… just changed, I guess. I just decided—well, you know, she wanted this for a while now. And I—I think I had just been holding back for silly reasons.” Dannie’s brow darted down and back again, quick as lightning. “Security reasons. I didn’t… know, I think, if I could trust us… or something? Oh, I don’t know. It just happened.” She felt her face growing warm. At points, talking about Carol with Dannie felt as natural as talking about anything else. Like they were just good friends talking about the things good friend might talk about. But then, every now and again, Dannie would get a look, make a gesture—things which, in themselves, shouldn’t cause her any alarm—and she would shrink back into herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Dannie. She did. It wasn’t that. It was that… it was just so strange. Talking about these things. Thinking aloud about them. Even in her apartment where she could very nearly assume no one else was listening, she still felt the absent presence of the world around her—the newsroom guys, the politicians, the strangers on the streets outside—all bearing down upon her conversation. All filtered through that little gesture of Dannie’s eyebrows. A gesture, which, in one fell swoop, reminded her of the vast, vast population. 

She raised a hand in defeat, “I practically live there already. Have been, really, for some time. This is just a formality.”

Dannie tilted his head a little to the left. Then to the right. “Kind of. I suppose. But. Also. It is a step. Getting rid of this place… well, it will—”

“Getting rid of this place will save me money,” Therese pushed back. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear Dannie’s analysis of her decision, her circumstance. For once, she just wanted some support—no hold’s bared support.

She sighed. “It’s a risk. I know. I know that. But…” she trailed off, her gaze drifting to the far wall. The curved archway leading into her kitchen had always been one of her favorite things about the apartment. It was such a small space—cracked, worn, a little dingy. But there were so many little shapes that she’d loved. 

“But you love her.” Dannie finished for her. He pulled another box toward him, sealing it with tape. Therese froze, staring hard at his hands laying on the box. Slowly, her eyes rose to meet his. 

He was smiling. Just a little, just slightly. It was a sad sort of smile—knowing and patient at the same time. Not for the first time, Therese wondered at him. Wondered why he had fallen for her, why he kept around. It seemed like a strange kind of torture. Staying. Sticking so close. But, then again, people did such strange things when they cared for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem. Hello again. It is the Winter holidays, and I finally have time to write again. And what better way to come back to our Carol and Therese with some horrific dream sequences. 
> 
> Also, as a disclaimer, Carol's dialogue in the dream sequence was all pulled from TPOS. It's Highsmith's writing, not mine.


	18. A Bright Forest With a Million Shimmering Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Therese prepares to move out of her apartment, she recounts her experiences in the space.

Dannie left around 2pm, carrying off with him a box or two for the donation center. He crossed the threshold with a contemplative look, running his eyes around the space one last time. It was funny—he’d hardly spent any time there. An afternoon of chatting over a beer once and then that time he’d helped her paint her walls. Their friendship was so much more confined to outings or work breaks or parties. Still, it was an ending of sorts for him too. A strange outro. A final bow. Yet another player leaves the stage, the crowd applauds and lauds and curtains fall. Therese released a breath as she shut the door behind him and listened to his descending footsteps on the creaking wood. It was a strange duality to say goodbye to a space, to feel the ending so concretely, and yet to know that life would continue, that she would keep moving long after leaving it.

Therese glanced at the few remaining boxes sprawled around the room. Clothing here, books there, some odd personal belongings. So much of it wouldn’t be missed—not really, anyway. She’d hardly looked at their contents for weeks now, she’d been so often at Carol’s. So often staring at the items lining _her_ bookshelf. Would saying goodbye to so many dusty things really be such a goodbye after all? It was almost as if they belonged to a totally different woman. A stranger. Her past self—another Therese living a ghostly life still in this shoebox of an apartment. One who didn’t have a Carol, didn’t have… anyone, she supposed. She was a stranger, indeed, that Therese. Certainly not the same woman who would look back at her from the mirror. What was Therese, after all, without Carol? 

Therese blinked at the thought. Oh. Goodness. Well. She forced her attention back to the concrete objects in the room—flooded over them, willed herself to know their shapes and shadows. Too much—much too much. 

Her eyes landed on a box nestled in between two larger clothing collections—it was open, with thick, wooden walls. An apple box. Its four corners filled her eyes. She slowly walked over to the box, kneeling down next to it and reaching for its contents. 

Suddenly, Therese was very, very nervous. Her fingertips stalled, held back by some force of resistance. Some new awareness. She felt as if she were reaching for strings of glass. Serrated metal spun into nests. Tiny bear traps full of so many sharp teeth. 

But her fingers found no traps, no teeth, no glass. Instead, within its depths, the box held a sweater or two. A pair of socks. A hairbrush. A scarf. A few letters. 

Therese pulled out the letters. A musky, spiced scent wafted up with them, still clinging to the paper from when Abby had dropped them off. She’d brought the box some time after they’d returned. At the time, it had felt like an extra punch to the gut—yet another reminder that Carol had wanted nothing more than to erase Therese from her life. But now—perhaps it hadn’t been about trying to forget Therese so much as trying not to remember her. 

Abby had been sorry, too. That Therese remembered more clearly now than she’d noticed it then. She hadn’t been able to meet Therese’s eyes—not quite, anyway—when she’d handed the box over. And hadn’t she lingered outside? Looking up at the apartment building for a few moments too long to be inconsequential. Therese had watched her watch the building, feeling bitterness and the numb rasp of her own self-pity bubbling up within her chest. She’d wanted to spit on Abby. To scream at her, or throw out a plate. Something that would shatter. Something. Or nothing. She’d opted instead to bite down hard on her lip, to cut through the skin and invite her blood to come out—to sit on her tongue and to keep her company. To soften what would surely be a long and lonely rest of time. 

Not that that all mattered much anymore. 

Funny how a few months could change so much so quickly. 

A few months… 

Therese shook her head. It was so rash, of course. Moving in this fast. So soon. It was ridiculous. 

But, also, it wasn’t. Not really. Not when you got right down to it. 

Therese knew, had known, from the start that this was where they’d been headed. It was yet another startling difference between Carol and Richard. She’d held Richard afar, suspended their relationship at each stage for as long as she could. She had always been so unsure, so unwilling with him. But, with Carol… From the second their eyes had met in the store, Carol had had Therese pinned and strung and flayed. They’d been leaning closer and closer to each other ever since, awaiting the crash and fall of their respective lives into one another. And that was exactly what had happened. So quickly. So rashly. So wonderfully. And after such a crash—well, it simply felt like a quiet, sensible hum. 

Therese’s thumb lifted the flap of the envelope. Her fingers seemed to dance of their own accord, folding into and turning around and pinching onto the letter within. Such soft paper. Such deep creases. The flat of her thumb traced the fuzzy ridges where the paper wanted to fold. 

_“I feel I am in love with you, and it should be spring. I want the sun throbbing on my head like chords of music. I think of a sun like Beethoven, a wind like Debussy, and birdcalls like Stravinsky. But the tempo is all mine.”_

A thrilled ran up her spine as her eyes traced the words. Such trouble one little letter had caused—such trouble for so few words. And such a whirlwind of difference it was to know that she could say them and more beyond these days. Evenso, she remembered the electricity of drawing out the strong shape of the ‘I,” curving and curling around the loops of “love,” into that celebratory announcement of “you.” There was such power in having written it. 

Well, clearly. Power for many. Power to several ends. 

Therese tried to feel bitter about it, tried to hold some semblance of irritation at the letter before her. If only she hadn’t written it… But. Well. If she hadn’t written it, who knows what would have happened. And, of course, she didn’t—couldn’t—regret it. Not really. 

Irritation slipped away, would not cling to the paper’s fuzzy crease. Instead, a dizzying crescendo of elation and thrill dug into the indentations left over from her pen. They burrowed into the ink and shape of each word. Therese pursed her lips. So much back then was a navigation of feeling. So much was a game of following that thrill, seeking that thrum of elation and fear. Running through a dizzying maze of emotions and risks. Stepping closer and closer to the dangerous edge, peering over into the swirling chasm that was them and theirs…

…

_Therese ran a finger along the back of the couch, noting the raised silk of the embroidered pattern. The thread in design woven in one direction against the yellow fabric below, grained another way. All the more beautiful for this one little switch. She stepped forward another step. Her finger ran out of couch. She lifted it to her lips, trying, perhaps, to capture the memory of the silk and the tingle of the fabric onto her skin. Her eyes lifted and were held by Carol’s. The blonde woman’s head tilted slightly, quizzically, amusedly. She looked so often at Therese like that. Curiously. As if Therese were so interesting, so puzzling. Funny thing. She was hardly a mystery. Therese smiled in return around her finger, feeling the lift of muscles pull against it—wishing so very much to feel the silk of Carol’s skin, to press the memory of_ that _texture against her lips…_

Touching things that Carol had touched was something of a pastime for Therese. Even now, perhaps. Sometimes. It was a sort of transubstantiation, she supposed. A sort of letter writing. Impressing into objects herself, taking from those objects the impressions of Carol. Best were things still warm from her touch. Like a throw or a pair of gloves. Therese would sometimes reach out, grasp Carol’s scarf freshly hung by the door after an outing—just to feel the warmth of the woman in her hands. The soft flannel underneath her fingers seemed to reach up to her, to greet her fingers. It wasn’t only material. It was Carol. A sort of Carol. She felt she could cross time and space—back to when it was slung around Carol’s shoulders… Touching the scarf, touching her shoulders—it was a kind of magic. And even these days. Even now that she could reach out to grasp Carol’s hand and expect a warm smile in return, there was still something special, something unspeakably and inexplicably intimate about quietly holding the objects between them. It was a secret sort of intimacy, she supposed. 

… 

It was time. 

There was only one more box. A small one—something she would carry down to the corner around the way to the café where she would meet Carol for lunch. One more box. 

The apartment was so empty. Startlingly so. Therese didn’t know what to feel at the sight of it. It looked alien in a way. Entirely unfamiliar in its barrenness. Had it always been this open? Had the ceilings always been so tall? Had that wall always been so far away, that window always let in so much light? 

Her eyes followed the line of the arched doorway suggesting a difference between the living room and the kitchen. It was simply so much open space now. The curve of the arch reached and reached upwards—it was such a graceful shape, a gentle movement. She’d not noticed this grace before. Her own objects had overtaken such quiet geometries. Funny how some things revealed themselves only after you let them go… 

But was it a letting go? Was anything really gone here? Therese ran her tongue along the ridge of her teeth, taking in as much of the blue walls as she could. Her belongings may no longer line the space, but “empty” or “barren” seemed like the wrong words to describe the rooms. Even without her rickety furniture and worn belongings, memories stuck to the walls, glued like paper. 

_Therese opened the door, allowing it to swing fully back and reveal Carol. The older woman leaned against the doorframe, her hands sunk deep into her lion coat, as if she had been sculpted there. As if the peeling paint and worn stairway weren’t entirely antithetical to her coiffed hair and manicured nails. How did she fill space like that? Therese felt dizzy all of the sudden._

_“Your land lady let me in.” Carol’s voice washed over her, wrapping her in a cloud of electricity and warmth. Therese had not known—could not have ever known or expected or wanted or hoped—that such simple words wrought in such simple tones could make her skin feel so safe and so nervous all at once. She knew she wasn’t moving, knew she hadn’t responded. She couldn’t. She didn’t have words or motions available to react to Carol. How did one speak to an angel?_

_Carol smirked and pushed a large yellow suitcase toward Therese with a single foot. Her eyes remained trained on Therese’s face, squinting to punctuate her movement._

_“Merry Christmas.” It was a sentence formed in a laugh, but… there was something underneath the laugh—some darkness squatting there beneath the buoyancy. Therese studied Carol’s face—the lines fanning out from her eyes, the little trail of a laugh line on either side of the woman’s mouth. Such lines felt suspended. Held against some heavy gravity. Therese was certain that the laughter was hollow, that the joy in Carol’s voice was being held aloft to brace against some other impulse. Something was off. She bit the inside of her cheek. Should she… ask? Would that be impertinent? Would it scare Carol off? She sucked in a small stream of breath and willed her lips to form some semblance of a word._

_“Open it.” The words cut across Therese, commanding action and pleading distraction at once. Therese felt her knees bend of their own accord, but her face remained upturned, remained tied to Carol’s. It was a queer sort of arrangement, crouching on the floor before this golden woman and her golden coat. It was almost absurd. She felt like she was poised to worship Carol, her hands floating above the suitcase, waiting to meet and thread together. Carol standing there, looking down at her, holding her hands out in front of her, crossed, covered in leather gloves—demure, patient, waiting for the reaction and holding out against it at once. And if only Carol were to reach out a gloved hand, would it be a sanctification? An absolution? Oh, to be blessed by Carol. Therese pulled in another mouthful of air. Her head thrummed. Her heart hammered. She swallowed with some difficulty._

_Carol standing there, in her doorway. Carol in her apartment. It was like a science fiction novel. An angel had dropped down from above, had come calling, had brought… a suitcase. Oh, yes. Yes. Of course. Right._

_She turned her gaze to the yellow suitcase with the brown leather siding standing before her. Therese held it like she was holding Carol. She turned it on its side, cradling its weight. She smiled and reveled in the tingling sensation of running her fingers over the raised stitches on the sides as her hands reached for the latches. She felt a rush of excitement at opening the case. Like the latches giving way beneath her fingers were latches to herself somehow. Like she was the suitcase unfolding its walls to her curious eyes. And within… Within was so, so much. Therese’s eyes lit up, her heart leapt, and she gasped so, so slightly to see boxes and boxes of film laying within the suitcase. A camera. Stunning and shining and perfect and new. Carol had listened. Of course she had listened; they had had an entire conversation about photography and her pictures, but… one never quite knew, of course. That anyone listened._

_Therese picked up the camera delicately—as if too much pressure, too firm a grip, would break it. As if it were glass. “Oh. Carol,” she murmured finally. She looked up at the woman still standing above her._

_Carol’s face softened, melted. The suspended smile loosed its hold and something softer took its place. Something sweeter, something sadder. Therese could hear, slight as a hummingbird’s flight, Carol release a quiet breath._

Therese wandered over to the window, peering over the sill and through the smudged glass. The sidewalk was slick from the day’s rain. Evenso, children dotted the way, men and women rushed to meetings or home after a long day’s work. The concrete lay quietly beneath it all, soaking up the water and clinging to remnants of chalk from another weekend of fun and games. 

The smudged imprints of chalk felt apt somehow. Therese wondered if perhaps she would have felt worse about leaving them were they fully intact, vibrant, fresh. It was a funny thing to be reminded of those living around you when you spent so much time alone. And Therese had. But she had always liked having her own place. There was an independence to it. A completeness, too. It was her space. Hers alone. Even with Richard, even when he stayed over, it was still hers. 

She couldn’t be sure when that had changed. When the apartment had stopped being hers and started being just a place she alone could occupy, a place to keep her things. She supposed it really was time to move. 

Therese placed a flat hand against the glass. It was cooler than her hand—to be expected—and the heat of her hand flowered the glass with a thin film of mist. Not much—it was still warm even with the rain. But some. Enough to suggest a handprint for a few seconds after she pulled her hand away. 

_“You don’t even know her.” Richard bit the words on their way out of his mouth. Therese tensed her jaw—to hold against their onslaught or to deny them entry. She wasn’t sure which. She let her thumb brush heavily against the knit pattern on her sweater as she folded it into the suitcase. Her suitcase. She wanted nothing more than to sink into the pattern, to fold herself into the suitcase and disappear._

_“And now you’re—I don’t believe this is happening.” Richard paced back and forth, his shoes hitting the floor flatly. Thuds receding and drawing closer. He was frantic. Oh, if only he would stop arguing, stop pacing. She would really rather pack in peace._

_Therese felt a nudge of guilt. It wasn’t his fault… Not… not really anyway. She just. She couldn’t help… She knew she wanted to go with Carol. She had to go with Carol. She wanted to. But, of course, Richard didn’t and couldn’t know that. To him it was just a whim. Or something. Just another disappointment. Another point of strangeness. He never had understood her rhythms, her motivations. But then, did she understand them herself? Really?_

_Her brow furrowed. It wasn’t his fault. She took a deep breath, shooting a glance at him as she went to pick up another piece of clothing. “I can’t explain it, I just—”_

_“What?” He broke in. Therese clamped her mouth shut. She shot him another look. Why did he have to be like this? Why did he demand explanations and everything but then just—“You got one hell of a crush is what. You’re like a schoolgirl.” He spit it out. Like it was a cuss. Like it was bile or dirt or something else vile and unspeakable. Therese felt the hair on the back of her neck rise, a panicked flush creep over her cheeks. It was an insult, surely. Just a phrase to get a rise out of her. He didn’t—he couldn’t…. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about._

_“I do not,” she returned, mustering as much conviction as she could. Her voice only barely shook. She quickened her pace, folding fabric faster and faster. If she could just focus on her hands… “I just like her is all,” she heard herself say. There. Steadier. Nearly convincing. “I’m fond of anyone I can really talk to.” Therese repressed a smile. Right. Exactly. Friends. Just… They were friends going off on a trip. And he was a fool to think otherwise._

_Richard sputtered on. Therese counted seconds to even out her breathing. One, two. Three, four. In and out. In and out. Folding and tucking and don’t forget this—or that there._

_“She’s gonna get tired of you and you’re gonna wish that you never—“_

_Therese’s eyes snapped back to Richard. Her lips curled of their own accord. Her entire body leapt out of itself, furious—“You don’t understand!”_

_He didn’t. He couldn’t. She wasn’t ‘one of those girls.’ It was just… It was Carol. He had no idea how it felt to be around her, to be seen by her. He had no idea. And Carol couldn’t—she wouldn’t get… tired of her. She… Therese felt something unhinge in her sternum, a panic flit about in her stomach. No. No, surely not. He was… He had no clue._

_“Oh I do. I understand completely.” Therese shook her head once. Again. She wanted him gone, now. Now. This was why—this was why he would never fit. He billowed out, filled the entire space with too much noise and too much_ him. _It was suffocating. There was no room for her. She felt pressed against the walls, held against them, as if she would sink into them. Submerge and stay locked inside like that story of the woman… Richard’s voice reached into her whirling mind and wrenched her attention back to him, “You’re in a trance!”_

_As sharp as his words were in shape, they were also dull. Therese suddenly felt like laughing. Laughing in his confused, hurt, enraged face. He didn’t know anything. He was flailing and screaming and filling up the room, but he still wouldn’t win._

_Maybe no one would._

_Therese held onto the rabid energy coursing around the edges of her clavicle, spitting back, “I’m wide awake. I’ve never been more awake in my life. Why don’t you leave me alone?”_

_For a second she thought it had worked. It had been enough to banish him. A magic word. A spell or a barb. His face contorted, blanched. For a second, he lost hold of his words._

_The second passed. He began to hurl them faster and faster._

_She could scream. She wanted to. She swept the room with her eyes—searching for last minute items or salvation, whichever came first. Would the noise of his protests, of this argument stay stuck to everything here? Would it sit with the dust, nestled, muffled? Would she have to wipe it up when she returned, whenever that would be?_

_He began to don his coat in an irritated shuffle. Therese let out a breath. The end in sight._

_“I asked you to marry me for Chrissakes!” He spun on his heel, making for the door._

_“I never made you—I never asked you for anything.” She knew she should keep her mouth shut. She knew it would be better to leave well enough alone. And yet. How stupid it was. How ridiculous! As if she owed him for deigning to propose. As if she should, of course, follow him to Europe or the ends of the earth just because he bought a ring. As if it didn’t matter that she didn’t want to get married because everyone and his cousin said she had to._

_She took a breath. Therese was suddenly so very exhausted. “Maybe that’s the problem.”_

_Maybe. Maybe, but did she ask anything of Carol?_

Ask me things. _The voice floating through her mind so quietly—a soft and stunning reminder. Of course. Yes. Of course she did. Of course she could. And, at the very least, she wanted to. She never wanted to—never wanted anything—from Richard._

_Therese listened to the door shut behind him, his steps hit each stair with a vengeance. No doubt she’d get a note about that latter._

_But the note would have to wait with the dust and the argument and the room, because she was leaving. Therese felt the slow smile spread across her lips. She raised a hand to her lips, her fingers tracing the curve. She sighed into the silence—not a soft silence, not a peaceful one. But still. And deep. Looking down, she ran her fingers over the stitching along the leather sides of the suitcase, lowering the lid until the latches slid into place._

She picked up the box, glanced over the expanse of mute wall and bare wooden floors. A funny place indeed. So shifting, so certain. What would it whisper to its new tenants? 

Ah, here comes the sadness. Just a little. Just a small swell of nostalgia peeking up from between the floorboards. Only enough to keep her company as she turned and walked over toward the apartment’s exit. 

She lay the key on the small table across from the door. It would remain, along with some other small furnishings. Therese glanced down at the little bits of metal. Her fingers hovered over them for a moment. She wanted so much to trace their outlines, to touch them for a last time. She was sure it would make… this all feel complete somehow. 

She smiled. Drew her fingers away from the metal. No. 

Things were complete. Or this chapter of things anyway. She raised her head, looking over the space one last time, and turned to the door. She touched, instead, the handle—turning it, pulling it toward her, and weaving her way around the door to step over the threshold. 

And paused. Just for a moment. 

Therese shifted the box in her hands to close the door behind her. Setting one foot after another, she smiled to herself and went to meet Carol for lunch. 

_It would be Carol, in a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they would go together, in heaven and in hell… Therese walked toward her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That is that. 
> 
> I'm marking this story as complete for now. Therese and Carol sit in my mind, so I will undoubtedly write little vignettes of them again. For now, however, this story feels complete. Thank you for taking the time to read it and adventure with me through the life they may have begun to lead.  
> ...  
> Helene Cixous wrote in The Book of Promethea, “She frightens me because she can knock me down with a word. Because she does not know that writing is walking on a dizzying silence setting one word after the other on emptiness.” In so, so many ways, Therese and Carol remind me of the women in The Book of Promethea. Both pairs of women quiver in fear and joy and ferocity in the face of each other—intently conscious of how closely they approach some kind of implosion. But, then, that isn’t fiction, is it? That is just living.


End file.
